


not with a thousand swords

by wagamiller



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:47:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3113537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wagamiller/pseuds/wagamiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The man who comes down the mountain isn't the same man who went up it.</i><br/> <br/>Felicity helps Oliver find himself again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A post 3x09 fic, because who doesn't need more of those during this interminable hiatus? Set a short time after Oliver's 'death', this will be vaguely alluding to the use of a Lazarus Pit, but takes plenty of liberties with the after effects. Probably very AU ish to what will actually happen in the show, since the League seem to be involved in Oliver's return here ... (or are they?)
> 
> Title from _The Princess Bride_ ("you will be helpless for all your hunting, because Westley and I are joined by the bond of love and you cannot track that, not with a thousand bloodhounds, and you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords.”)
> 
> A million thank yous to Meg, for agreeing to beta this monstrosity.

 

Ray asks and asks and asks, so when Felicity finally agrees to help him, he’s so happy he doesn’t even hear the caveat in her offer.

“We could be a good team, y’know,” he enthuses, snapping his hands together. He’s practically bouncing on the toes of his feet, he’s so excited.

“No,” she says, sharply. “I said I’ll help you _once_. That’s all.”

The note of caution in her voice must finally sink in, because he drops his smile at last. “Why now?”

Laurel, training all the hours God sends.

Roy, itching to punch something.

Dig, who barely says a word anymore.

Broken ribs and dead ends and all of them daring each other to be the one to say it.

_Maybe we can’t do this without him._

Felicity sighs. “I just ... need a win.”

Ray shakes his head, baffled. “Then why only once?”

Because who doesn’t want to save the world, right?

Looking at him is too much like looking right into the bright lights above them so she blinks and looks at her feet instead. He’s so confident, so assured. So utterly, utterly, naive. It won’t last and poor guy, he doesn’t know it yet. Why would he?

He’s only at the beginning.

“I can’t take the losses anymore,” she answers, biting her lip so he doesn’t see it tremble.

She’s at the bitter end.

Ray looks at her sadly, the way everyone seems to be doing lately. As though her limp hair and hollow eyes are something to be pitied. He doesn’t understand that getting out of bed is a battle that she is winning, quietly, every day. She fights down the urge to scowl at him.

As it turns out, the case he’s working on, the one he’s been pestering her about looking at all day, isn’t exactly what she had in mind.

“So what if this guy has been killing gang members? Oh relax, I do know killing is bad,” she adds quickly, because he’s starting to looking at her like he doesn’t know who she is. “But this is Starling City, Ray. Can’t we let SCPD find this guy and, I don’t know, focus on someone who is actually hurting the good guys instead?”

“The cops did find him,” Ray says grimly. “Last night. He put four officers in the hospital.”

“Ah.”

“It’s not just that, though,” he adds, stepping around her towards his computers and leaning over the keyboard. “I think he might be one of those men ...” His voice trails off, cracking a little at the end. “From last summer. With the masks.”

The Hockey masks. The Mirakuru. Slade. _The men who killed his fiancée._ Suddenly, Ray’s fixation on this guy makes horrible, perfect sense.

“Uh ... Ray, that’s not possible,” Felicity says gently, without thinking.

He glances up at that, but seems to take her certainty for conjecture. “Different mask,” he notes, “but he seems as strong. Just look.”

He nods his head towards the monitors and she directs her attention to the screen that’s playing a grainy security camera feed of one man fighting at least four others.

It’s not one of the men from last summer.

It’s something infinitely worse.

And she should probably be scared, she realizes dimly, of the tunic and black mask and what it represents. But there’s no room for fear when she’s this angry. Beyond angry, actually. She’s fucking furious.

“How dare they?” she spits out, not caring that Ray’s still standing right there beside her.

“How dare who?” He turns his attention away from the feed and towards her, but she hardly catches his words over the rush of blood in her ears.

“Sometimes I’m going to know things,” she says distractedly, fumbling in her bag for her phone. “And you’re going to want to ask me how I know them. But you’re not going to. Ok?”

“Ok,” he agrees, face blank with confusion.

Speed dialling Diggle, she turns back to the feed as one, two, three men go down to the assassin.

“The League’s back in town,” she says, the second he picks up.

Then the figure in the centre of the fray spins a certain way, sidestepping a blow, and her entire world shifts on its axis.

Diggle’s still talking on the phone and Ray’s saying something right next to her, but she doesn’t hear any of it.

Because she knows that move.

And as she watches, not breathing, not even blinking, she realizes it’s not the only thing she knows. That gait. That stance. That feint. Hasn’t she seen it all a thousand times?

How many hours of footage like this has she quietly, efficiently, deleted when their job was done?

Even without a bow, he’s unmistakable.

The shock of it actually steals her breath. It’s stepping outside on a frosty morning, or missing a step on the stairs, or falling from a great height but waking up in your bed. It’s all of that at once, a million sensations rushing in to replace the numbness that had started to feel as familiar as the weight of her glasses on her nose. She drops the phone to the floor, her arm dangling uselessly at her side. 

Job done, bodies dropped, the man in black stalks away into the shadows and the footage ends, leaving nothing but grey static.

Felicity watches the empty screen until Ray leans down and picks up her phone for her. The faint sound of Diggle screaming her name reaches a shrill pitch of panic that gets through to her.  She takes it wordlessly and raises it back to her ear, arm shaking.

“They sent their newest recruit,” she breathes, voice hardly there. “John, I think it’s Oliver.”

 

* * *

 

 

“It don’t believe it,” Roy says flatly, folding his arms.

“It can’t be him, Felicity,” Diggle adds, coming up on her other side as she sits at her desk and calls up the footage she needs.

They’re using their careful voices, watching her warily like maybe she’s finally fallen apart but at least they’re still here. Laurel had listened to the explanation for thirty seconds before storming out, refusing to even entertain the possibility. Felicity hadn’t bothered to chase after her, for the same reason that she doesn’t bother to correct Diggle and Roy now.

There’s no _time_.

No time for anything but finding him.

On the drive to the Foundry, as it felt like she hit every red light in Starling City, Felicity’s life had quietly and efficiently rearranged itself, this new truth settling into place. She’d thought she’d never see him again. Now she knew she would. Everything else - the unanswered questions and the tears behind her eyes and the horror of whatever’s been done to him, it was all just background noise compared to the thought of him alive, breathing the same Starling City air that she was.  

She is aware, if only dimly, that she’s probably in shock. That this state of calm is a temporary measure, some sort of defence system against reality. But right now she’s functioning, she can still hit play on the footage even with her numb fingers, so she’ll take what she can get. Given the day she’s having, it’s a fucking _miracle_ she can even move.

“Just watch it.”

She folds her arms and watches Diggle and Roy as they watch the footage, counting the seconds in her head.

_Four Mississippi_

Roy shakes his head.

_Thirty three Mississippi._

Diggle’s jaw drops.

_Fifty Mississippi_

Roy’s not even breathing. 

By the time the footage fades to static, she knows her argument is won and a knot eases in her chest.

“What have the League done to him?” Roy asks, desperately pale. Diggle pushes a chair towards him and he all but collapses into it.

“When Ray saw it, he thought it might be one of those Mirakuru guys. What if it is?” Felicity says, giving voice to a theory that’s been quietly taking shape in the back of her mind. “Mirakuru, I mean.”

“It’d explain why he seems so much stronger,” Diggle allows, leaning on two fists in front of the monitors. “But I don’t see how the League could have got their hands on it.”

“Who’s to say what they could get their hands on,” Felicity points out, scowling at the mere thought. “We don’t know the first thing about them, really.”

“What about the stuff Merlyn gave Thea?” Roy puts in, running a hand over his face. “The drug?”

Oliver as Merlyn’s puppet. The idea turns Felicity’s stomach and her boys don’t look much better, both of their faces slack with horror.

“Oh God, Thea.” Roy all but moans her name, dropping his head into his hands. “What do we tell her?”

“Nothing,” Felicity says, quickly. “Not until we know more. We can’t let her see him like this.” Her voice fails her. She clears her throat, ignoring the thickness there. “It’d destroy her.”

Neither of them question just why she’s so sure of that. Dig squeezes her shoulder in a way that tells her he understands all too well.

“Whatever it is, Mirakuru or something else, why is he killing gang-bangers in Starling?” he wonders aloud, steering them back to the topic at hand. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“How many ...”

Roy doesn’t need to finish the question.

“At least six, Ray said.” Felicity swallows, hard. “Over two nights.”

“What about the cops?” Roy asks, paler still.

“He didn’t kill them,” she says, quickly. It’s the only silver lining to a very, very, dark cloud. And god, when did her life get so bad that seriously injured but not dead was a damn silver lining in the first place? “They’re stable. But ... pretty bad.”

“We have to find him,” Roy says, voice suddenly fierce. When Felicity looks over at him there’s a ring of red around his eyes that wasn’t there before. “Like you did for me.”

“We will, man,” Diggle promises, letting a tremble of emotion slip into his tone for a minute. “What about Palmer?” he asks, turning to Felicity, suddenly businesslike again. “Did he have any leads?”

“Not really,” she shrugs. “The attacks have been all over Starling, and it’s not a specific gang being targeted, either.”

“Is he gonna go after him?”

“I think I talked him into dropping it, for a while.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose under her glasses. That had _not_ been a fun conversation. “I had to tell him I work with the Arrow. He agreed for now, but if we don’t find him soon–”

“We will,” Roy says, his jaw set with a level determination she’s never seen in him before. “Where do we start?”

By some unspoken agreement, they keep their discussion practical, trading ideas on how to find him until they’re talking in circles and going nowhere. 

Every time the footage ends, Felicity skips back to the beginning and restarts it. It hurts to watch, but it’s _him_.

Everything she hasn’t let herself feel yet is still ticking over in the back of her mind, like one of her programs left running quietly in the background, not using too much of the processing power. All so the system doesn’t fall over, overwhelmed and useless. She knows she’s going to have to feel it all sooner or later, but right now she chooses later, thank you very much.

And she really does keep it together, right until just as she’s ready to head home, when Diggle grabs her into a quick hug.

“We’re gonna find him,” he whispers into her hair, voice choked with emotion. Tears spring up behind her eyes and she gives herself a count of three to let go. No more. More and she’ll never make it home in one piece. Diggle holds her tight, holding her together until she can do it herself. The count gets to twenty seven before she’s ready to let go but all things considered, she figures that’s not too bad.

When she gets home, it feels a lot like someone’s watching her as she walks up the path to her building. She smiles at her door, imagining Diggle or Roy arguing over who would follow her home, and wondering which of them won.

It’s not until much later, right as she’s about to fall asleep, that the other possibility even occurs to her.

And even though she can’t know for sure, she just _knows_ , anyway.

She throws herself out of bed and to the door, wrenching it open and calling his name into the dark street. She doesn’t expect a reply and she doesn’t get one, but she stands there until her bare feet are numb in the January air anyway. Just in case.

As it happens, hope’s a lot like caffeine.

She doesn’t sleep a wink.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the lovely response to the first chapter :)
> 
> Just to be aware - this part contains a mugging (albeit a planned one) and some minor violence, so if anyone has any issues with that or finds it at all triggery, please be advised.

 

Oliver follows her home every night after that.

At least, she thinks he does.

It’s not Roy or Diggle, and when she plucks up the courage to awkwardly ask, no, it’s not Ray Palmer either.

But it’s definitely someone. Shadowing her footsteps home, never in sight, never even in earshot. She only knows he’s there by the hairs on the back of her neck, the feeling fading the very second she steps into the beam of the security light by her door. And she knows it’s sad and unhealthy and a little weird, but she starts walking slower every day just to feel him behind her a little longer.

The killing slows, but doesn’t quite stop. He is thorough and efficient and ruthless. Like Sara used to be, Felicity thinks dully, as she deletes the latest footage before SCPD can find it. Like The League.

Only assassins don’t follow you home every night, just to see you safely through your door.

By the end of the week she’s having nightmares of Oliver leaving the fresh bodies on her doormat, like a cat bringing home a mouse. It’s only when she tells Dig this that he finally relents and agrees to her suggestion for drawing Oliver out.

“I still don’t like it,” he warns her later, as she prepares to leave the Foundry.

“I know,” she agrees, humouring him with half a smile. “But it’ll work.”

“It’s dangerous,” Dig huffs, folding his arms.  

Roy opens his mouth to agree and really, their protectiveness is sweet, but she doesn’t have the god damn time for this.

“Every night we don’t find him is another death. On his conscience _and ours_ ,” she snaps, as if the security footage they’ve collected isn’t reminder enough. “He’s not in his right mind. And you two waiting in the Glades every night in case he happens to show up isn’t working. Neither is following Thea! We–” she waves her arms to indicate the three of them, “have to stop him now!”

“I’m not sure us paying someone to attack you was the right way to go about it,” Dig says, frowning. “And we don’t even know for sure that he’s been following you.”

“I do. I know,” she insists and you know, she's never really set much store by all that gut instinct crap, but right now she's reconsidering. There’s no explanation, no evidence, but she _knows_.  “He’ll come, I know he will.”

There’s no more argument and she hears them fall into step behind her as she heads for the door, so she figures that's tantamount to approval.

 

* * *

 

“You guys here?” Felicity asks as she gets out of her car and taps on her comms, pleased to hear that her voice at least is relatively steady. It’s strange, because she’s been pushing this idea for days but now that’s it’s happening, she is suddenly not ready.

There’s the distant sound of a motorcycle cutting out and then Roy’s voice on the comms, murmuring that he’s in position.

“Dig?” she asks quietly. “You there? I don’t see the van.”

“That’s the idea, Felicity,” Diggle’s voice is affectionately exasperated and it’s so normal that she almost forgets for a minute just what’s at stake tonight. “We don’t want to spook him.”

“Right. Of course. You know I always liked that we had a van,” she adds, babbling to cut the tension. “Like the A Team.”

“Does that make me Hannibal?” Dig asks, amused, clear as day over the comms.

Roy doesn’t respond to the joke but then again, she didn’t really think he would. “Remember, I paid this guy off to get your purse,” he says tersely, “but he’ll probably go for other stuff too. Your watch, maybe.”

“Great,” Felicity says dryly.

“No unnecessary risks, Felicity,” Diggle reminds and she can hear the slight snap of tension in his voice, even over the comms. “Oliver’ll kill me if I let you get hurt just when we’re getting him back.”

She smiles, even though Dig can’t see her. “Agreed.”

Her nerves jangle as she walks on, heartbeat pounding so loud in her ears that she can barely hear Dig on the comms as he tells her she’s doing great.

Any moment now, she might see Oliver.

She’s so intent on that single fact that she barely sees the fist before it connects with the side of her face.

She goes down like a stone, glasses shoved half off her face and god damn it, she’s actually surprised. Who the hell forgets they’re about to be assaulted? She clamps down a hysterical giggle and looks up at her attacker, just as he reaches for her purse. Instinctively she tightens her hold on it, until she’s in an actual tug of war with the guy.

“Anytime now, Oliver,” she grits out, feeling her grip loosen.

She lets go with a gasp when her attacker aims a swift kick to her stomach that certainly wasn’t what Roy paid him for. Hunching over on her side, she presses her forehead to the cool pavement, glasses biting into the bridge of her nose. No honour among thieves, eh?

There’s a squeak of sneakers on the sidewalk as the guy turns to run then a gasp, a few dull thuds and finally a horrible, desperate gurgling sound.

She drags herself over and shoves her hair out of her face, heart pounding. As she straightens her glasses, her vision clears to reveal the guy who attacked her suspended a few feet in the air, his own hands clawing at the fingers wrapped around his neck. As she watches, he lands a kick to the groin of whoever is holding him, succeeding in getting dropped to the floor.

And finally, finally, she can see who has come out of the shadows to defend her.

Even though this was the plan, and even though she’s been imagining this very moment every second for the past week, there’s still nothing in the world that could have prepared her for it.

_Oliver._

Not ten feet away from her, panting with exertion, everything but his eyes obscured by a swathe of black fabric across his face.

Alive.

And completely, utterly, blank.

Her blood runs cold. There’s dread and then there’s this - ice, down her spine and in her veins, stopping her heart.

His eyes twist in confusion as he looks down at her and oh, he really doesn’t know her at all. 

She scrabbles up into a seating position, but the words to call for Dig and Roy won’t come. Her aching chest throbs with the uncalled shout, and the sobs she's holding back. 

She tries to remind herself that it's ok, that she knew this could happen. It’s drugs, or conditioning, or some other horror that they haven’t considered yet. But there's facts and then there's this. There's looking at the face she knows best in all the world and seeing a stranger.

And oh, she is such a _fool_  to have ever let herself listen to hope. To that whisper in the back of her mind that said that he would never, could never,  _ever_  forget her.

Oliver turns his blank face away from her, back down to the man at his feet. With one arm, he reaches into the folds of his jacket and even before he pulls out the blade, Felicity knows what’s about to happen.

“Oliver, No! Don’t!”

The command tears from her throat as a howl, louder than anything she’s ever screamed in her whole life. Louder even than she screamed into her pillow the night Malcolm came and told her he was dead, when her voice was useless for days afterwards.

It’s just instinct. She doesn’t really expect him to stop, but she has to _try_.

Then, right away, he just ... stops.

She watches in stunned silence as he obeys her, lowering the knife and knocking his opponent out with a single punch instead. The blade drops to the pavement and Oliver looks over at her with wild eyes, as if he doesn’t even know why he’s done it.

The momentary distraction is enough that he doesn’t react in time to dodge the arrow that’s suddenly fired towards him. And even though she knows it’s a sedative, fired by a friend, Felicity still winces, horrified, as it buries into his thigh. Confusion melts into a split second of rage before he crumples to the ground in front of her.

Now is really a spectacularly bad time to lose it, but he looks a little too much like a corpse laying there, and he’s alive but he’s all _wrong_ , and her ribs and her cheek and her heart really fucking hurt.

So she starts to cry, just so she doesn’t scream.

 

* * *

 

The next few minutes are a blurry series of vaguely connected images and sounds.  

The screech of tires as Diggle pulls up in the van, his face terrified behind the wheel.

Roy skidding to his knees in front of her, grabbing her shoulders and asking where she’s hurt, and her just laughing, right there on the pavement, because where the hell isn’t she hurting?

For a moment she thinks wildly of Malcolm Merlyn and his earthquake machine, until she realizes it’s not the ground that’s shaking. It’s just her. And that howling isn’t the wind, isn’t in her head, it’s her voice, sobbing out Oliver’s name while Diggle drops to his knees beside him.

Time seems to be jumping forwards, moving faster than she is. One minute Diggle and Roy are carrying Oliver between them, his legs trailing uselessly along the ground, then they’re all in the van and driving away. She doesn’t even remember getting up off the sidewalk.

She comes back to herself with a jolt when the van takes a sharp corner and Oliver’s prone form slides a little across the floor in the back. Reality rushes in, everything suddenly louder and clearer than before. She’s cold. Her cheek stings. Her palms are bleeding. Her side aches.

Oliver is two feet away from her and _she is not touching him._

She drops to her knees beside him with a cry that comes from so far down in her chest that it hurts. Reaching for him immediately, she drags his prone form into her lap and shoves back the black hood away from his face.

His hair underneath is longer than she’s ever seen it and she almost recoils. That sight alone seems to sum up the distance, the time, all the unknowns since she saw him last. She lowers her head to whisper the question into his hairline. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

He just drifts on in unconsciousness while she cradles him against her and whispers promises she can’t hope to keep. Everything will be ok. You’re safe.

His hand is limp in hers, but it’s warm. His fingers are calloused and her nail polish is chipped and she will. not. let. go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you, for the response this story. This fandom continues to blow me away :)
> 
> I actually finished the first draft of this whole fic this weekend, which is why I can now say it's going to be in 12 parts! It's still mostly a mess and needs to go through my beta, but it's on it's way!

 

Getting into Verdant is always easy. Because what’s the point of a secret base of operations without a secret entrance, right?

Except tonight, of course, the universe has apparently decided to screw with them. That’s the only explanation for why some idiotic new bartender is wandering around in their path muttering about a stockroom that is three corridors and four steel doors in the _other_ direction.

Felicity herds Roy and Dig into a side room, heart in her mouth. She’s not entirely sure what’d happen if they were found carrying an unconscious and twice presumed dead man around, but it’s definitely not good. For one hysterical moment, she kind of wants to laugh.

By the time they make it downstairs, Roy’s whiter than a sheet and Dig’s doubled over, hands on his knees from the exertion.

Oliver’s just lying there on the medical table, his arm hanging slightly off the edge.

And suddenly, nothing’s funny anymore.

Felicity rushes down the last few steps and carefully, as gently as she can, lifts his arm up and onto the table, taking his hand again. (Diggle had had to peel her fingers off, one by one, before she’d let them take Oliver out of the van and bring him inside.)

“Should we …” Roy’s trails off, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Should we restrain him?”

"No,” Felicity says sharply. "No restraints. He won't run."

It's more a hope than a certainty, but Diggle doesn't argue. 

“I don’t think he’ll run," he says slowly, looking down at Oliver. "As long as Felicity's here."

"Just .. help me take this off,” she says, gesturing to the black jacket that is all wrong against Oliver’s too pale skin.

She doesn’t quite know why it matters so much or so suddenly, but she’d tear it to pieces if she could. Instead, she unzips it carefully, hands shaking. Dig steps forwards without a word to help lift Oliver’s torso so she can slide the jacket off his shoulders and shove it aside. The black fabric that was wound around the lower part of his face has pooled around his neck, so she unwinds it carefully before dumping it onto the floor with the jacket. Oliver’s wearing a black t-shirt underneath and she doesn’t even have to ask, Diggle’s already pulling it off and throwing it aside.

“Felicity.” Her name falls strangely from Diggle’s lips.

“What?”

Dig just shakes his head, laying Oliver carefully back down on the table.

That’s when she sees it. Sees them.

The new scars.

The evidence of Ra’s al Ghul’s victory is stark under the fluorescent lights.

A deep scar on his forearm, jagged and long, a few more across his side and the biggest of all, right there on his chest. Barely healed over, angry and shockingly red against the pale white of all the others.

“Oh,” is all she can say.

There’s the next three hundred and sixty five days worth of nightmares, right there.

Diggle’s arm winds around waist, holding her up.

Roy steps up on her other side, a hand on her shoulder as he looks down at Oliver with them.

Felicity doesn’t even really realise she’s crying until she feels the tears on her cheeks.

All she can think is that it’s just _not fair_.

Oliver doesn’t deserve any more scars.

Roy disappears from her side and returns a moment later with a bottle of something unlabelled and an ice pack for her cheek. She doesn’t question what the alcohol is, just takes the glass that he gives her and lets Diggle push her onto the stool that he’s wheeled up behind her.

Roy holds the ice pack to her cheek so she doesn’t have to let go of Oliver’s hand. Her heart swells at the gesture.

“We have to ... to ... take some blood,” she says vaguely, her mind all over the place. “Test him for Mirakuru.”

She tries to get up but Diggle’s hand on her shoulder keeps her in place. “We will,” he says, calm and steady beside her, “when your hands stop shaking. Drink, Felicity.”

“What is this, the old West?”  

The joke falls flat, but Dig gives her a small smile anyway. “It works,” he shrugs, downing a shot of his own.

“Bottoms up.” She shudders as the burning liquid makes it’s way right down into her chest. It’s medicinal and way too strong, but it sort of leaves a nice spot of warmth in her throat so she holds the glass out for a second measure. “Another please.”

When she passes Roy back her empty glass, it’s with a steady hand. He shoots her a half smile in reward and swaps her the glass for the ice pack.

“I’ll go do a patrol,” he says, with a strangely significant glance at Dig that she’s not meant to see.

“Put the Hood on,” Dig suggests, with a nod to the mannequin that holds Oliver’s jacket. “It’s been a couple of nights, about time The Arrow put in an appearance.”

“Right,” Roy agrees, shedding his own red jacket reluctantly.

When he’s suited up again, too small and slight to look quite right in green, Felicity makes a point of flashing him a smile.

It’d been hard, to look at him or Dig at all, the first few times. Oh, she’d understood that it was necessary, she’d even said herself that Oliver Queen and the Arrow couldn’t disappear at the same time. Still there was something so horribly _wrong_ about seeing anyone else’s eyes under that hood. When she’d realised they couldn’t stand it either, avoiding any reflective surfaces in the Foundry, she’d gone and hugged them both so hard that her arms had ached for hours afterwards.

“I’ll be on comms if ... if anything ... if you need me,” Roy says, as he walks backwards towards the stairs.

Dig’s eyes drift over to her the moment the Foundry door closes behind Roy, but he doesn’t say a word. The weight of his silent concern settles on her, like a heavy comforter on a cold night, welcome and warm against the chill of the ice against her cheek.

“I’m not going to fall apart again, John,” she promises after a moment, thinking of Roy’s not so subtle departure. “I’m really sorry about before.”

Dig snorts, shrugging off her apology. “Felicity, I honestly don’t know how you kept it together that long. I’ve been a mess for days.”

“Really?”

“Are you kidding me? Lyla’s been putting me to bed at night like I’m the baby.”

Felicity laughs at that, which she has a sneaky suspicion was his exact intention. When she lowers the ice pack and glances up at him, he’s smiling down at her. Oh boy, she could fall apart again under that friendly gaze, as easy as breathing.

She could. She really, really, could.

Then she looks back at Oliver. Lost. Found. Somewhere in between.

She _won’t_.

“Ok, let’s do this test.” Handing Dig the ice pack with one hand, she holds her other out for the syringe.

Dig shoots her a look caught somewhere between exasperation and pride.

If she doesn’t look at Oliver’s face, if she just keeps her eyes on the crook of his elbow and the needle in her hand, she can almost convince herself it’s someone else’s blood she’s drawing.

Job done, she hands the sample to Dig and presses a cotton wool bud against the tiny pin prick of red she’s left behind. Her breath flutters and she knows she’s going to think a lot about that silly little spot of blood when she finally closes her eyes to sleep tonight. This morning. Whatever.

“He’s cold,” she says absently, laying his arm back down on the table.

Diggle throws her a blanket and she pushes her stool aside, standing to lift Oliver up and wrap the grey fabric around his chest, hiding the scars from sight. Satisfied, she lowers him gently back to the table, cradling the back of his neck with her palm.

Then she stands there and looks at him for a long time, thinking how easy it would be to bend down and brush her lips against his. It’s so very tempting, but she knows he wouldn’t flutter open his eyelashes and come back to her. He’s not Sleeping Beauty and her life’s not a damn fairytale, so why bother daydreaming about it?

Giving herself a little shake, she heads over to the bench where her centrifuge sits.

Dig takes the stool beside the table, watching over Oliver while she works. She’d thank him for that but the way he’s staring down at Oliver tells her that it’s not only for her sake that he sits there.

By the time the computer sounds an alert to indicate the testing is done, she’s pacing in front of Oliver’s unconscious form, stealing glances at him every couple of seconds. She almost trips in her eagerness to get to the results, and when she calls them up it takes a few seconds before she can really see what she’s looking at.

“Nothing,” she turns to Dig, disbelieving. “No Mirakuru. No traces of anything unexpected.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nope,” she repeats, running her fingers under her glasses to rub at her eyes. “His white blood count’s a little high, like he’s fighting an infection but other than that…”

Dig sighs, heavily. “So what now?”

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly, heading back to stand by Oliver’s side.

She smooths his hair back over his forehead, leaving her thumb resting on his brow.

“Maybe we wait for him to wake up,” Dig says quietly, standing up beside her, “and ask him.”

She swallows, hard.

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

There’s waiting.

For a train, a delivery, a download.

And then there’s Waiting.

For your dad to come home in time for your Birthday.

For the result of a duel that you already know is lost.

For the right moment to say it back. _I love you, too._

Waiting costs.

And Felicity absolutely hates it.

She runs the blood test three more times. The result always comes back the same, but it’s something to do, an occupation for her hands if not her mind.

For a little while, she eavesdrops on the police frequencies, sending Roy on the way to a couple of scenes when he’s closer than the nearest car. Even that starts running out in the end because it’s so late that apparently even Starling’s criminals have finally gone to bed. When she mentions this, Dig half-heartedly suggests she get her head down and do the same for a little. One look silences him on the topic, but she makes sure to passive-aggressively brew a pot of strong coffee as well, clanking the fixtures a little more than necessary.

As it turns out, coffee is a terrible idea. Nervous jitters and caffeine jitters really don’t mix. She’s reduced to cleaning her monitors with a lint free cloth, just to give her hands something to do besides twist themselves into nervous knots.

When it happens, all Dig says is her name.

“Felicity.”

And she knows.

Dropping the cloth, she walks on trembling limbs around the desk and towards the table where Oliver is starting to shift around.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this,” she whispers, in a tiny voice, just for Dig’s ears.

“Too late,” Dig whispers back, his own voice wobbling dangerously. He grabs her hand, gives it a quick squeeze. “Remember, he’ll be a little groggy, but he’s still capable of doing some damage if he wants to. Be careful.”

Careful, right.

Don’t stand too close.

Don’t hope.

Felicity lets out a long breath. “Never been that good at careful.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Arrow Week everyone! I'm so glad this hiatus is almost over :)

* * *

 

Oliver’s eyes flutter open, bleary, confused and so, so _blue_.

Felicity’s breath catches in her chest and one hand flies to rest over her heart as if she could press through her skin and make it slow down.

He watches her through half closed eyes, his own chest rising and falling slowly.  

The words are there, ready on her tongue.  _I love you. I love you. I love you._

She opens her mouth.

“Hello,” she says instead, quietly.

Oliver blinks up at her, groggy and docile. With a groan he sits up, swinging his legs over the table but not jumping down.

Dig backs up a little, pulling Felicity’s arm to make her step away too.

Oliver glances around the Foundry, carefully taking everything in. His eyes move casually but she doesn’t miss the way they linger on the only exit and the weapons on display. She’s seen this instinct before, has watched Oliver catalogue a hundred new environments, but she wants to scream that this isn’t necessary. Not here.

Oliver fingers the grey blanket around his shoulders, as though he’s only just noticed it. Then he slowly, so very slowly, drags his gaze back up to Felicity.

She’s ready this time, for the emptiness there. She won’t fall apart this time. And she’d stick to that promise, really she would, except that there’s something other than blankness in his face now.

It’s not recognition, nothing so strong as that. He just tilts his head to the side, considering her, like an old school friend whose name is just out of reach.

Felicity bites down on her lip so hard that she tastes blood.

“Oliver?” she asks, voice shaking so badly that his name comes out barely more than a whisper.

“No.” He shakes his head, his expression suddenly closing off. His hands close over the edges of the metal table and the metal actually buckles beneath his fingers. He looks down at the damage, seemingly unsurprised by the unnatural show of strength.

“Oliver Queen died on that mountain,” he tells her quietly, in a flat voice. “Thinking of you,” he adds, raising a finger to point at her and frowning slightly.

Felicity’s hand, which is still resting on her chest, tightens until she’s got a fistful of her own cardigan. Suddenly there’s no air in the room, in her lungs,  _anywhere_. She takes a great heaving breath, trying to hold in the sob that she can feel working up her throat.

Oliver’s face actually falls, as though he’s upset to have upset her and god, that just makes it worse. He reaches a hand up as if he’s going to comfort her and then stops halfway, looking curiously down at his arm as if it’s moved of it’s own accord.

Felicity looks wildly back to Dig, silently begging him to take over. His hand closes over her wrist, giving it a squeeze as he steps forward to her side.

“If Oliver’s dead,” Dig says to Oliver, and she can hear the effort it’s taking him to sound so detached. “Then who are you?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver says blankly, like the question has never occurred to him before now. “What was left behind, I suppose.”

“Do you know who I am?”

"A friend," Oliver says vaguely, and Felicity hears Diggle release a stuttering sigh.

"So you remember things from before?" Dig presses, folding his arms. "Your sister? Felicity? Being The Arrow?"

“I remember ... pieces,” Oliver says, frowning slightly. “Like ... a story somebody told me. Like it all happened to someone else.”

“What about the duel? What do you remember about that?”

Oliver just shrugs, a lazy, full bodied shrug that makes Felicity want to shake him. “Ra’s won. Oliver died.”

“So you keep saying,” Dig mutters.

“Try,” Felicity insists, stepping closer and then, losing her nerve and backing right up until she hits Dig chest. “Please. Tell me exactly what you remember.”

He looks at her steadily for a minute, still blinking slowly as though he’s not quite awake.

And then, just like before, he does exactly as she asks.

“I remember it was cold. And high up.” He grabs the blanket a little closer as though he’s back there, on that mountain side. “Ra’s won ... and I -” he stutters to a stop, before correcting himself quickly, “he was dying. Or dead .. I don’t know.”

“It _hurt_.” His lip trembles, only slightly, and just for a minute he looks like a little boy. The urge to gather him into her arms is so strong she feels it as a physical pain, an ache right down into her bones.

“I woke up somewhere else,” Oliver goes on, lapsing back into an expressionless voice. “There was water, maybe? But ... not the ocean. I don't know, it was dark. I was so tired.” A flash of irritation crosses his face at the admission of weakness and it’s so desperately familiar that Felicity almost smiles.

“I still am, a lot of the time.” He sighs, blinking blearily up at the fluorescent lights with a frown at their brightness. “But that won’t last forever.”

Dig flashes a look at Felicity. “Who told you that?” he asks, though they all know the answer that’s coming. “The League?”

“The League,” Oliver answers vaguely, his voice strangely flat, almost rehearsed.

Oliver murmurs a word in arabic. “The Archer,” he translates, catching their blank expressions. “He gave me the name. But he wouldn’t give me a bow,” he adds suddenly, folding his arms petulantly, a child denied a toy.

“Do they know you’re here?” Dig asks, shrewdly. “Did they send you?”

For the first time, Oliver seems uncomfortable and Felicity spares a moment to marvel at Dig’s impressive interrogation skills. Maybe, she thinks vaguely, they should stop sticking arrows in people and just start sending Dig.  

“No,” Oliver says quietly, and Felicity’s heart skips a beat at the admission. “I didn’t have permission to leave.”

Diggle smiles, like that’s the answer he’s been looking for. “Then why did you?”

Oliver folds his arms tightly. “This is my city.”

There’s a second of silence as his words seem to echo in the space between the three of them.

“No, it’s not,” Felicity snaps, surprising even herself.

She steps forward again and Oliver’s attention turns to her instantly.

Suddenly she’s furious. At Merlyn for making him go, at Oliver for going, and most of all at Ra’s al  _fucking_ Ghul for what he’s sent back to her.

“It’s Oliver’s city,” she clarifies, anger fading as quickly as it had flared. Her voice wobbles, but she pushes the words out. “And if he was really gone, then you wouldn’t be here.”

Oliver doesn’t say anything for a really long time. When he finally does, there’s a twist of real pity in his face. And that, more than his words, is what really hurts.

“I told you, Oliver died.”

Her voice fails her. Maybe the caffeine is wearing off or maybe it’s the look in his eyes, but suddenly she is very aware that it’s nearly 5am and she hasn’t slept in God knows how long.  

Dig steps up and she’s so grateful that he’s here, that she’s not in this alone, she’s almost crying before she even hears what he has to say.

“I think she’s right,” Dig says, his voice a deep rumble that betrays his own tiredness. “You left the League for a reason. And you could have walked out that door any time so far. The strength you seem to have right now, I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of stopping you.”

“What’s your point?” Oliver says, tiredly.

“You want to be here,” Dig suggests, “even if you don’t quite understand why. Because Ra’s al Ghul is just the latest in a long line of people who’ve tried to make you into somebody else, Oliver. And if I know you at all, you’re not going to let that happen.”

Oliver opens his mouth to argue, then abruptly closes it.

Conviction suddenly flares within Felicity, puzzle pieces sliding into place and oh, ok, wow. It all makes sense now, sort of. If you squint. But hell, she’s short-sighted so she’s no stranger to that.

“I know that you’re still in there, Oliver,” she says, jabbing her index finger into his chest, forgetting for a moment that this isn’t just one of their million other disagreements.  

He looks down at her finger, but doesn’t move to shove her off.

“That’s why you came back. That’s why you’re here, why you’re wandering the streets at night–”

“You’re wrong,” he says, in a voice that’s caught somewhere between the Arrow and Oliver.

“Then why have you been following me?”

“I ... don’t know,” he says slowly, and God, she wants to reach out and smooth the furrow on his brow because  _she does_ , she knows why.

If she was a chess player, this would be the moment to say ‘checkmate’.

But come on, she’s a child of Vegas.

And this conversation has been the highest stakes she’s ever played.  

All that’s left is to lay her cards on the table.

“Because you love me,” she tells him, simply. “Oliver.”

_All in._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's sticking with this story! This chapter's pretty short and something of a breather for me, and Felicity, from all the angsty shenanigans of the first few chapters. Also a chance to catch up with a couple of other characters, some of whom I know people aren't fond of but who really couldn't be ignored entirely and who offer a chance for a different viewpoint on how Felicity's doing. From ch6 to the end, it's pretty much full on Oliver/Felicity interaction (apart from ch8 which features a conversation between two characters that was **so** much fun to write). I'll try and post ch6 soon, since this is really only a short interlude chap.
> 
> Also - a note on canon since the show is back. This whole fic is already written, so save for any edits from my beta's suggestions, it won't be altered to fit the show's canon. So essentially take this as AU from 3x09!

* * *

 

Roughly thirty seconds after finishing her sentence, Felicity’s courage deserts her.

“Just sleep on it, ok?” she suggests quickly, because 5am is _not_ the best time for Oliver to be making any big decisions. He’s denied everything tonight, his past, his memories, even his own name. She’s pretty sure she won’t survive it if he denies her too. “Stay here tonight and we’ll talk tomorrow. Please?”

It’s late and she’s several hours beyond tired so maybe she’s imagining it, but she could swear that she hears a smile in his voice as he says, “Ok.”

Without a backwards glance, he heads to the bed in the corner, effectively closing the discussion.

Exhausted and wrung out as she is, it still just about registers with Felicity that this is the third time he’s done exactly as she’s asked.

And yes, maybe it’s nothing.

But maybe it’s really, really, _something_.

 

* * *

 

Although she doesn’t expect a restful night, Felicity sleeps like the dead.

Which, come to think of it, is a terrible expression in light of recent events. Lying in bed the next morning, stretching out the aches of yesterday’s attack, she makes a mental note _not_ to use it in conversation today.

When she eventually rolls out of bed and draws back her drapes, the morning outside is the same as exactly every other day for the past month. Cold. Sharp. Grey. She wonders why she thought it’d be different. Oliver’s home and what, that’s supposed to make the sky a different colour?

Her phone’s full of messages from Dig and Roy, something she’d insisted on before she’d agreed to leave the Foundry at all. Dig’s are matter of fact, the same text pasted on the hour to confirm Oliver’s continued existence. Around 7am, the messages switch to Roy, whose commentary is a little more detailed. She smiles, reading the latest ( _he’s still asleep. he’s still alive. I still don’t know why I’m sending you these messages if you’re asleep._ )

She fires off a reply. _Thank you for these. I’ll be there soon._

* * *

 

When Felicity makes it to the gym, Laurel’s alone and it’s obvious that she’s been there a while. There’s a thin sheen of sweat across her skin and a few stray strands of hair are sticking to the side of her face and the back of her neck. Felicity wonders if Ted finally got sick of finding her on the doorstep in the morning and just gave her a key.

With a quick wave in greeting, Felicity steps up to hold the punch bag for Laurel.

“What happened to your eye?” Laurel asks, her own eyes widening in horror.

“Oh, long story,” Felicity says, gingerly poking the tender skin around her cheek. “I guess my concealer doesn’t quite work miracles, then. False advertising.”

Laurel smiles grimly. “Well, I’ve got a good one in my bag. If you need it.”

Felicity tries not to think about how that’s kind of the saddest thing she’s ever heard.

Laurel turns back to her training and for a second, concentrating on her blows, she looks just like her sister. The dull pain of it hits Felicity like one of Laurel’s punches.

“We found Oliver,” Felicity says, getting straight to the point.

Laurel’s next punch falters, sliding off the side of the punch bag.

“I would have come earlier, but I was up most of the night with him. Not like that,” Felicity amends, feeling her face flush because oh god, she literally couldn’t have put it any worse.

“He’s not ... himself,” she explains quickly. “We don’t really know what’s happened. The League, we think. He’s pretty vague. But he’s alive,” she adds, mostly because she can. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get tired of saying it.

“Sara’s still dead though, right?” Laurel asks through gritted teeth, continuing her relentless punches.

Felicity almost lets go of the bag.

“Sorry,” Laurel says, quickly, “that wasn’t fair.”  She stops punching at last, but keeps her gloved hands up, a guard against what Felicity isn’t exactly sure. “I am glad he’s ok,” she adds, after a moment. “Really, I am.”

Felicity shakes her head. “He’s not ok.”

It tumbles out then, the whole story. She tries to keeps it all factual but even so there’s an embarrassing moment in the middle when she has to stop talking altogether, because she’s about three seconds away from crying and she and Laurel are not crying-in-front-of-each-other friends.

“I hate them,” Laurel says when Felicity finishes, punctuating her words with dull punches. “The League. For what they did to Sara. And for this.”

“They’ll come looking for him,” Felicity says, voicing the fear for the first time. “We need to get him back before they find him. Or they’ll just take him away again.” Her voice almost drops out completely at the end, swallowed up by sheer horror.

“We won’t let them,” Laurel promises, suddenly fierce. “Look, I can keep an eye on the streets–”

It’s a nice offer, and one Laurel obviously believes she can deliver, so Felicity makes an effort to stop her scepticism from showing on her face. “Roy can help you,” she puts in, quickly.

“You just focus on helping Oliver, Felicity.”

“I don’t know how,” Felicity admits, hating how thin and pathetic her voice sounds. “We barely know what happened.”

“So find out,” Laurel says, like it’s beyond obvious. “Isn’t that what you always do for him? You figure things out.”

It’s a statement of fact, but the sudden warmth in Laurel’s voice makes it a compliment.

Felicity feels a smile steal onto her face. “I guess so.”

“Y’know, I’m glad he’s got you,” Laurel calls, just as Felicity turns to go. “He has–” She hesitates, “ _Got you_ , hasn’t he?”

Felicity doesn’t bother to pretend she misunderstands.  “Yeah,” she says, softly. “He does.”

When Felicity looks back, Laurel’s focused on the punch bag again.

“What do you imagine when you hit that?” Felicity finds herself asking.

“I don’t know,” Laurel shrugs. “No-one really. Maybe if I knew what Sara’s killer looked like, it’d be easier,” she adds, throwing a particularly strong punch.

Felicity’s imagination conjures up a tiny Thea, sitting on Laurel’s knee once upon a time, both of them laughing at some game.

“Maybe not,” Felicity says, mostly to herself, as the gym door swings shut behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

Her phone rings as she’s getting into her car, distracting her from a loop of guilty thoughts about honouring Oliver’s choice to keep the truth of Sara’s death from Laurel.

There’s a tiny hairline crack along the bottom of her phone, from where she dropped it in Ray’s office, a little more than a week ago. She runs her finger over it as she fishes the phone out of her purse. It’s silly, but she’s kind of attached to that little jagged line now.

“It’s Saturday, Ray,” she sighs, not bothering with hello.

“This isn’t about work,” Ray says quickly. “Well, sort of. Not work-work, but work, you know?”

She can practically hear the air quotes in his voice. “Yeah.”

“So ... no attacks last night...” he trails off, leaving her to fill in the implied blanks.

“Yeah. We found him,” she says, vaguely. “So problem solved.”

“That’s good, that’s great, well done,” he enthuses, using six words when two would do, as usual. “And are you ... ok?”

It seems to be the question of the week, where she’s concerned. If it’s not Diggle, it’s Roy or Laurel. And now Ray. Apparently she’s just radiating waves of _not ok_ at the moment.

“Felicity?” Ray prompts.

“Mhmm.”

Most of the time, she doesn’t have a damn clue what she’s feeling. Tired, definitely. Afraid, almost constantly. But Oliver’s alive and that single fact, the sheer overwhelming miracle of it, is still trumping all the rest.

“I’m ok.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“It’s complicated.”

A beat of silence and then, Ray’s voice, frustrated. “You’re not going to expand on that, are you?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’.

 

* * *

 

When she finally gets to the Foundry, she is greeted by the familiar sound of fighting. It’s a mark of her strange, strange life that she isn’t even worried. She learnt the difference between the sounds of a real fight and a staged one a long time ago. And that’s not even in the top five of her list of odd talents.

When she rounds the corner, the shock of seeing Oliver again, alive and here, is still enough to knock her back a few paces.

And oh, it’s all so close to being normal. Watching him and Roy sparring like this, she could almost pretend that nothing’s happened.

Except his hair is still all wrong.

It’s a silly little detail, but she flinches at the sight anyway.

Dig appears swiftly by her side, wearing a tank top and a penitent expression.

“Fighting seem like a good idea to you?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “He’s been _killing_ people.”

“He was itching to do something,” Dig shrugs. “And I wanted to get an idea of his abilities,” he adds quietly, an aside just for her.

“And?”

“Scary,” Dig says frankly, holding his arms. “Oliver’s always been strong but this ... this isn’t natural.”

Catching sight of her, Oliver nods over at her, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. He’s dressed in his usual work out clothes and she’s ridiculously pleased to see there’s no black involved. And yes, it’s just a colour, but she’s pretty sure she’ll have a grudge against black for a very long time.

“He say anything else?”

“Not much,” Dig shrugs. “‘Told Roy pretty much the same as he told us. But he’s pretty vague about it all. He doesn’t know how he got back to Starling, for one. Or how he got away from the League in the first place.”

“I’m thinking violently,” Felicity says, because it’s gallows humour or no humour at all these days.

Dig huffs a half laugh. “He hasn’t mentioned leaving though, and that’s got to count for something right?”

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” she says, keeping her voice low. “About something Laurel said. If we’re going to help him, we’ve got to find out what really happened to him.”

“And how do we do that exactly?” Dig murmurs back, eyes on Oliver and Roy but attention all on her.

“Merlyn,” she breathes, feeling Diggle tense beside her at the very mention of the name. “He was in the League, once. I say we ask him what he knows.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway point of this story! Thanks to everyone who has stuck with it so far :)

* * *

 

“I can’t be hearing this right,” Dig huffs, folding his arms as if that ends the argument. “It’s too dangerous, Felicity.”

“Dangerous is trying to help Oliver when we don’t have all the facts.”

“We can’t let _Malcolm Merlyn_ of all people know that Oliver’s alive.”

“I’m willing to bet he already knows,” she argues, trying to keep things rational. Emotion has no place in this conversation, not if she wants to keep this latest coat of mascara dry. “Oliver’s been walking round every night dressed like an assassin–”

“Right,” Dig says, tightly, “Merlyn probably keeps an eye out for those.”

“Since they tend to want to kill him? Exactly.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“I hate it,” Felicity admits readily. “After what he did? To Thea? To Sara? To Oliver? _I hate it_ , John.” She looks at Oliver, easily fending off Roy’s every attack, barely even tiring. “I just don’t know if we have another option.”

“What about ARGUS? They must have some records on the League.”

“I already asked Lyla.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Called her first thing. And Caitlin too, in case she had any ideas. They both said they’d see what they could find but it might take some time. And we don’t have it.”

Diggle lets out an irritated grumble. “Just give Lyla a chance. 24 hours? C’mon.”

“Y’know, I promised Lyla I’d send you home for some proper rest,” Felicity says, changing the subject abruptly so she doesn’t have to answer. If Dig notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving him here–”

“And I don’t like the idea of you not seeing your baby girl for more than 24 hours,” Felicity shoots back, not above using Sara as her secret weapon to win this particular argument.

Dig softens at the mere mention of his daughter’s name. “Then Roy stays.”

Felicity shakes her head. “Roy hasn’t slept either.”

“Oh no, I am definitely not leaving you alone, Felicity.”

“Oliver won’t hurt me,” she says, and though she’s just watched Oliver dump Roy to the floor for the third time, it’s not empty bravado. She knows it, like she knows her own name.

“And if the League show up?” Dig asks, raising his eyebrows. “‘Cause I’ve been thinking - if they really did this, and they lost him, they have to be tracking him.”

“Oh.” Her stomach drops. Suddenly she’s half-expecting to hear footfall on the stairs. “I didn’t think of that.”

Diggle rolls his eyes. “Didn’t think so.”

Roy holds up a hand to indicate that he’s done sparring and her breath catches for a minute at the flash of irritation in Oliver’s eyes. For a split second it looks like he wants to hit Roy again, but then he pulls him to his feet and Felicity tries to tell herself she imagined it.

“Roy and I are going to go,” Dig calls to Oliver as he makes his way off the mats towards them. “How do you feel about me finding you someplace to stay?” Felicity flashes a glare at him, because they were _not_ done discussing that. He just stares unapologetically back at her. “ARGUS have some safe houses, might be a bit more comfortable?”

“No!” Oliver shakes his head violently, suddenly staggering back a few steps. His jaw sets and a cold fury descends over him, etched in every line of his face. “ARGUS can’t be involved. Don’t contact them.”

And then, even though it was Diggle’s suggestion, Oliver looks to Felicity.

“Not Waller,” he says, suddenly desperate, as though his salvation lies only in her hands. “Please. She  ... she can’t know. She can’t see me like this. Please.”

The look on his face is utterly foreign. It twists something, right in the pit of her stomach.

“Ok, ok,” she says, raising her palms hands in surrender. “You can stay here. With me.”

And then, because he still looks desperate and because she can’t bear it, she places her raised hands flat on his chest. “Ok?”

He grabs for her hands, squeezing her fingers. She stifles a gasp at the contact.

“With you?” he says, voice ragged.

“With me,” she parrots back to him, nodding slowly.

He holds her hands for a long time, her cold hands warming under his fingers. Then suddenly, his whole body slumps, exhaustion draining the colour from his face.

“I’m going to go wash up,” he says blandly, all evidence of his momentary breakdown wiped clear from his face.

Even so, he doesn’t let go of her fingers as he makes to go, taking her hands with him until her arms are stretched right out towards him. He lets go at the last possible moment.

Once he’s out of sight, Felicity spins to Diggle and Roy.

“What the hell was that?” Roy asks, looking as freaked out as she feels.

“Oliver’s got some sort of history with Waller,” Dig says tightly. “He’s always pretty cagey about what exactly went on.”

“I’m guessing it was bad,” Felicity says flatly, the look on Oliver’s face still haunting her. Because apparently, her life is just a queue for her nightmares these days.

“But he remembered it.” Roy scrubs a hand over his tired face. “He keeps saying Oliver’s dead. But that was Oliver, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Dig agrees, humming a nervous sigh.

“He usually hides his feelings better than _that_ ,” Felicity says, running a hand over her ponytail, smoothing it down nervously.

“Look, I shouldn’t have brought it up–”

“You were trying to help,” Felicity interjects, letting Dig off the hook. “You’re both dead on your feet.” She winces at her word choices. What had she decided about phrases with dead in, just this morning? “We can’t live our lives waiting for the League to turn up and kill us. Go home.  Get some sleep. I’ll. Be. Fine.”

She stresses the last words slowly, half for them and half for her.

Still, when they finally take their leave and their heavy footsteps fade up stairs, her heart flutters nervously in her chest. She sits down at her computers, checking on some of her usual programs and and trying not to think about assassins or Oliver or anything else that makes her feel like her stomach’s tying itself in knots.

Oliver’s shirtless when he comes out of the bathroom, because apparently the universe isn’t done fucking with her. His hair is wet and his blue eyes are bright in his too pale face. Felicity swallows hard, eyes raking over his scars, the familiar and the new.

He looks lost, a little boy in a crowd, until his eyes latch onto hers.

“Felicity."

His voice is rough around the edges, sandpaper and gravel. 

“I’m here,” she says, softly. “I’m not going anywhere.” She doesn’t know quite why, but she feels like it needs saying.

He smiles slightly and then suddenly, his face falls. It’d almost be funny, how fast he goes from happy to sad, if it didn’t hit her like a punch in the stomach.

“You’re hurt,” he says, eyes narrowed to the spot on her cheek that must be showing through her concealer again. He throws on a t-shirt, crossing the room in two short strides and his hand is halfway raised to her cheek before he stops himself.

“Oh,” she says, poking at the skin there again. “It’s nothing.” Oliver grits his teeth, so she amends quickly. “I’ll be ok. It’s just a nasty bruise.”

She decides not to mention the larger one, ugly and grey, across the side of her stomach where she was kicked.

Oliver towers over her, the solid expanse of him blocking everything else out. It’s too much, too familiar and oh, she wants it too much. She makes herself stand, pushing her chair aside.

“I would have killed that guy,” he says, quietly. There’s no venom in his voice, just a cold certainty that frightens her more than anything else. “Maybe I should have.”

“No,” she insists, clenching her fists so tight her nails dig into her palm. “You don’t kill anymore. You’re better than that,” she adds, fiercely.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his overlong hair and dropping into her chair, spinning it to face her. “Am I?”

“I always thought so,” she says, in a quiet voice.

“I have been thinking about what you said,” he says, spinning idly in her chair. “Last night.”

Her heart clenches.

“And?”

Oliver looks at her for a very long time and the weight of his gaze is so much that a cowardly part of her wants to run away home and never look back. But something tells her that her entire world might just hinge on this moment so she holds his gaze, not blinking, hardly even breathing.

Almost without realising it, she drifts closer to him. Still sitting, he has to crane his neck up to look at her. If she takes another step, she’ll hit his knees.

“You were right. I don’t want to be what they made me,” Oliver says eventually. His voice is rough, but not like like the Arrow. Like Oliver. That determined tone he takes sometimes, the one she always feels rather than hears, right down to her toes.

The relief is so much that it almost chokes her voice away completely. “What do you want to be?”

“Who you see when you look at me,” he answers promptly, his eyes following a single tear as it rolls down her cheek. “But I’m not sure I know how, anymore,” he adds, with a helpless shrug that tugs at something deep in her chest.

He’s looking at her like she’s the only person in the world who can help and finally, _finally_ , she thinks she might understand what he meant that day after Sara died. She could cry, can even feel the burn of tears behind her eyes, but she won’t. She doesn’t have the luxury of falling to pieces.

She puts her hands on his face, curling her fingers around his jaw. His skin is warm beneath her hands, his stubble rough and longer than usual and oh god, she almost lost all of this.

“Nothing makes sense right now,” he says, sighing out a frustrated breath, “except you.”

Her breath stutters in an embarrassingly audible way because damn it, apparently even half brainwashed, Oliver Queen can still deliver one hell of a line.

“I’ll help you.” The promise is as easy as breathing. “Whether you want me to or not, actually,” she adds, babbling to fill the sudden charged silence.

A ghost of a smile flits across Oliver’s face. She feels it lift his cheeks under her hands and her stomach swoops.

“Where do we start?”

“I’ve got a few ideas,” she says, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of her chair and towards the stairs up to Verdant.

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

* * *

 

 

Thea’s in the loading bay, signing off on a delivery. Though they’re well out of sight, tucked away in a corner that’s suitably shadowed, Oliver still shrinks back a little at the sight of his sister.

Felicity’s tiny hand on his broad shoulders can’t be exerting any real pressure but he lets her push him forwards slightly anyway. Not into Thea’s line of sight, but closer. Closer than he’s been in weeks.

“We haven’t told her about you,” Felicity says, “not yet. Figured you could do that, when you were ready.”

“How is she?” he murmurs, hesitantly, as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask. There’s longing on his face, plain as day and Felicity feels a swoop of anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, she was right about this.

“She misses you,” Felicity says, her voice little more than a whisper. “Roy’s been looking out for her, but I think she could really do with her big brother.”

Thea’s giving the driver an earful about something or other, and Oliver almost smiles at how the burly guy practically cowers in the face of the slight brunette and her displeasure.

Encouraged, Felicity goes on. “You told me,” she breathes, resting one hand on his arm, “before you left, that you would do _anything_ to save her.”

Oliver nods and nods and nods and does not stop looking at Thea, even for a second.

“If that’s true then you just have to come back,” she says, simply. “You don’t have a choice. Because she’s not safe, Oliver. She is _not_ saved.”

He flinches.

“All she has left is Malcolm Merlyn,” Felicity goes on, ignoring the near growl from Oliver at Merlyn’s name. “She needs you.”

Business done, Thea waves off the driver and leans against the wall of the club, checking her phone. Oliver just stands there and watches her, not saying a word. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“How does it feel?” she asks, hesitantly. Picking at the scab, just to see if it bleeds. “Seeing her? Do you–”

“I miss her,” he says, slowly. Like he’s afraid that saying it aloud might make the feeling disappear. Then suddenly he smiles, just a flash of teeth. “God, I really miss her,” he says again, a happy tremble in his tone.

Felicity squeezes his arm. “Good. That’s really, really good. I’ll be inside,” she adds, trusting him not to run. Not now. “Come in when you’re ready.”

It’s risky maybe given the circumstances, but her faith is not misplaced. When he comes back downstairs ten minutes later, his face is determined and grim and god, so familiar.

“You talk to her?”

“Not yet,” he says, quickly. “I will, when I’m ...” He falters, huffing self-consciously. “Soon.”

When she smiles at him, his lips quirk in reply. It’s one of his almost-smiles. Oh boy, she missed them.

“So what’s next?” he says, with a hint of his old focus.

She jerks her head towards the plexiglas case that contains his bow, untouched in far too long.

He raises his eyebrows.

“You said he wouldn’t give you a bow,” she reminds him, and he nods. “Maybe he didn’t want you remembering what it feels like.”

The flash of excitement in his eyes, only just concealed, tells her this was the right idea. Apparently she’s on a roll with bright ideas today. She allows herself a little internal cheer.

“You had it made for me,” he says slowly, as he closes his fingers around the bow and pulls it down. “I remember.”

She nods, remembering too. She’d thought him lost then too, but he’d come back. Not the same, but still it’s a nice thought. He’s got a history of unlikely comebacks.

“Go shoot some of your tennis balls, then.” She makes a shoo-ing motion with her hand. He rolls his eyes and just for a flash, she sees _Oliver_. “I’ve got work to do.”

She turns to her computers and starts looking for Malcolm Merlyn, the familiar sound of Oliver’s bow string as her soundtrack.

 

* * *

 

Her life narrows into a specific routine. If she’s not sleeping or working, she’s in the Foundry, looking for Merlyn and watching Oliver try to put himself back together, piece by piece.

He sleeps almost constantly, in between bursts of energy, and she becomes kind of obsessed with watching him. It’s borderline weird and unhealthy but there’s just something about him asleep, his features peaceful and untroubled, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm that means he’s breathing, he’s _alive_. She can’t resist it.

When his brows start to furrow, dreams creeping back in, she knows that it’s a good thing, really. Cold hearted assassins don’t have nightmares but god, Oliver Queen sure does. Still, she cries a little the first time she sees him start to shift around in his sleep and when he wakes with red eyes she lets him hold her hand until he’s ready to let go and doesn’t ask him what he saw. The list of possibilities is far too long.

When she’s not worrying about Oliver, she worries about Thea, still drifting on above them without any idea that her brother is alive and breathing just a few feet below. Oliver goes upstairs to watch over her sometimes, like some twisted guardian Angel, but he doesn’t speak to her. Not yet, is his constant refrain. Soon. Every time he says it, she goes back to her computers and tries to find Merlyn again. Anything to help him. Anything to help that girl upstairs.

The thing is, not all dead men are as easy to find as Oliver was.

There’s no trail, electronic or otherwise, to Malcolm Merlyn. Felicity keeps looking, hastily closing the windows whenever someone passes her monitors. Because apparently she’s keeping this plan to herself. And oh, that’s probably a bad, bad idea, but it’s done now.

Laurel keeps her promise to watch over the streets. Whenever she’s in the Foundry she goes over old stories for Oliver, people and places from when they were young and stupid and in love. When Oliver finally starts to fill in the gaps she’s leaving, she hugs him fiercely and he grumbles that she’s stronger than he remembers. She whacks him on the arm on her way out and when he watches her go, catsuit on and blonde wig in hand, there’s a familiar worry in his eyes.

Diggle and Roy throw questions out when they’re training, like Oliver’s life is a mission spec they need to go over and over, until it sticks.

“Your name is–”

“Oliver Queen.”

“Your sister’s name is–”

“Thea Queen.”

“Your Mom and Dad–”

“Moira and Robert. They died to save us.”

On and on and on, every fact collected over two years is tested and re-tested, the answers punctuated with blows of the escrima sticks, or hand to hand sparring, or once, when it’s very late and Felicity’s pretending to be asleep at her computer, the clink of beer bottles raised in toast.

The days when it’s all too much, Oliver kicks them out and turns down the lights to try and sort his memories back into some semblance of order. Felicity just cleans the drops of red candle wax from the floor and doesn’t ask, because god, it’s working.

It’s all working.

Every day Oliver’s a little more human and a little more the man she loves. He watches her as she flits about the Foundry, the weight of his gaze heavy on her skin.

It’s getting so hard not to just say it.

_I love you I love you I love you._

The incessant drumbeat of the words is a constant companion, but she can’t, she won’t, say it.

Yet.

He isn’t Oliver, not really. Only pieces of him. Strung together with nothing but determination and who knows what.

He has to come back to her first. On his own.

He has to choose life.

And then, only then, she will look him right in those god damn big blue eyes and say it, at last.

 

* * *

 

She’s starting to think that maybe they don’t need Merlyn after all, until the day Oliver finally asks the question she’s been dreading.

“How many did I ...” he falters, his voice quiet and strained. “How many dead?”

Felicity opens her mouth to answer but Roy is quicker. “Nine. That we know of.”

Oliver closes his eyes.

“It wasn’t you,” Roy says quickly. “I know it feels like it was.”

Felicity realises with a horrible jolt that Roy’s talking from experience and her heart sinks for both of them, slowly, like a stone in water.

“What if it was?” Oliver asks, dully. “Me, I mean.”

“It was The League,” Diggle reminds him, sternly. “Whatever they did to you.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Oliver asks, frustration in every line of his rigid frame. “We have no idea what happened _or_ why! We don’t know if they’re coming, if they even know I’m here–”

“We’ll find out,” Felicity promises, stepping up and grabbing hold of his face, forcing him to look at her.

She has to reach right up onto her tip toes to do it, but it’s worth it, for the way his eyes close for a second at the contact, all the breath leaving his body in a sigh that she feels ghost across her hairline.

Oliver looks at her for a long time, a war going on behind his eyes. His eyes are red, but the thing that really does it, that’ll keep her up at night, is that he doesn’t even try and hide that from her.  

When he finally goes back to his training, frustrations taken out on his escrima dummy, Felicity goes back to her computers, and the search for Merlyn.

 

* * *

 

It’s so simple in the end, how she finds him. When it comes to her, it’s so obvious that she actually smacks herself in the forehead (and then lies profusely to everyone around her about why, because it’s.supposed.to.be.a.secret).

All the time she’s spending worrying about Thea, she can’t believe she didn’t see it sooner.

If she wants to find Merlyn, she only has to track _Thea._

Which is how she finds herself in a classy brunch spot the very next day, sliding into a seat opposite Malcolm Merlyn.

He doesn’t even look surprised.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger again, sorry! (not sorry)  
> Thanks a million to everyone reading/commenting/following this story! I promise ch8 bring LOTS of answers...


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you thank you thank you to everyone sticking with this story. I had a huge amount of fun writing this chapter - when I sent it to my beta it was just titled SHOWDOWN WITH BARROWMAN.  
> 

* * *

 

She spares a moment to marvel at how full the restaurant is. The table is in the corner, almost entirely hidden from view, but still she can’t believe how supremely, arrogantly, unconcerned he is about being seen. Then again, she figures that’s a perk of being dead. Nobody expects to see your face over their pancakes.

“Thea’s not coming, is she?” he asks, maddeningly calm.

“Nope,” Felicity says, with an innocent shrug. “She really shouldn’t leave her phone lying around Verdant. Anyone could pick it up.”

“Y’know I wondered which of you would come,” he says, folding his arms and leaning them on the table. “But I have to say, I didn’t expect it to be you.”

“The others don’t know I’m here,” she says and then adds, wincing, “which I probably shouldn’t have told you.”

He actually smiles at her. Indulgently, like he finds her amusing. Her skin crawls.

“You know why I’m here?” she asks, trying for the detached tone that Dig manages to capture so easily in conversations like this.

“Oliver,” Merlyn says simply. “He’s back in Starling but let me guess, he’s not quite himself. You want to know what happened to him.”

She folds her arms, mirroring his posture. “Do you know?”

“Miss Smoak, do you think your employees talk about you when you’re not there?”

“I suppose,” she says, thrown by the sudden subject change.

“The League is no different,” Merlyn says, with a careless shrug. “I heard things over the years. Saw things. _Impossible_ things.”

“I’ve seen plenty of those,” she deadpans, sipping the ice water in front of her delicately.

Merlyn smiles again. “Some said that Ra’s had ways of saving a life, of bringing someone back from the very brink of death or even just beyond that-”

“What do you mean _beyond_?”

He shrugs. “Maybe it’s just a story.”

“So tell it,” she snaps and he smiles, like that’s a little victory.

But the story that follows is so absurd, so strange, that the only sane reaction is laughter.

“That’s impossible,” she scoffs, her voice a pitch higher than normal. “It’s science fiction. It’s ... it’s _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ –”

“The effects I’m describing are not unlike the effects of Mirakuru,” Merlyn notes, neatly reminding her that it’s not even beyond the bounds of science she’s already experienced. “And I’m willing to bet you’ve seen stranger things than that.”

Her brain sags under the weight of his explanation. It’s unreal, impossible. And yet... it’s not. Not really. She thinks of the Mirakuru and of Barry, of everything else she’s seen that should be impossible.  

Mind whirling, she hangs onto the one solitary word he said that really matters. “You said any side effects were temporary?”

“In most cases,” he says, gently, like he’s delivering a blow.

She closes her eyes, stomach dropping.

“How–”

“Time,” Merlyn answers promptly. “And effort. The ones that didn’t come back to themselves, they didn’t _want_ to.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

He shrugs, opening his arms like a benevolent Father. “I want him to recover. And,” he adds, dipping his head in acknowledgement, “I suppose it serves my interests to have him back where he belongs.”

It’s not a confession, far from it, but something just _clicks_ in Felicity’s mind.

Sometimes a solution presents itself to her, fully formed. The final line of code she needs, that final crossword clue from last Tuesday, the name of someone she used to know. It always seems like it comes out of nowhere, but usually she’s been piecing it together in the back of her mind for days.

Her grip on her glass almost slips and she places it back onto the table carefully, examining her theory for gaps and shit, finding none at all.

“Oh my God. It wasn’t the League that brought him back at all,” she says, slowly. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

The smug bastard doesn’t even deny it.

A million questions explode in Felicity’s brain.

“H-h-how?”

“I told you,” he says, with another lazy shrug. “People always talk, even in the League. But you see, I _listened_.”

“You found what R’as found,” she says, disbelieving. “It actually exists?”

“Oh it exists,” he nods, a dangerously possessive glint in his eye. “I found it–”

“And what? You stole it?”

“Some,” he says, guilelessly. “A sample, I suppose you could call it.”

“That’s how you survived.” She doesn’t mean to say it aloud, but the thought’s in her head and maybe she’s in shock, because she can’t stop it slipping out. “When Oliver thought he’d killed you.”

Merlyn doesn’t move to agree or disagree, but he doesn’t have to. It all makes horrible, perfect sense.

“The solution degrades over time, if it’s removed,” he goes on, as if it’s just a vaguely interesting scientific discussion they’re having. “It almost wasn’t strong enough for Oliver. I used it all.”

Her heart skips and oh god, she hates him for making her feel _grateful_ , even for a minute.

“How did you find him?”

“I knew where to look,” he boasts. “I was in the League for a long time, Miss Smoak.”

“But why bring Oliver back at all?” She leans back in her chair because suddenly just the table between them isn’t enough distance from his smirking face. “Why use it all on him?”

For a minute she thinks he’s not going to answer her. Then, dropping his smirk and turning serious, he leans forwards on his forearms and says the last thing she expects.

“He’s family.”

“Right,” she scoffs, voice rising dangerously high. She takes a sharp breath in and out, forcing herself under control. “You killed Tommy but–”

“I’d have saved Tommy if I could,” Merlyn interrupts, angry for the first time in the conversation. “I was too late,” he goes on bitterly, as if the failure is still fresh. “I couldn’t bring him back. But I could save Oliver.”

“But Oliver thought it was the League,” she goes on, desperate to find something, anything to make this not the truth. “He described...”

Her voice dies, because the reason why has just presented itself, so obvious in hindsight. She feels sick. “Oh my God, you gave him that drug didn’t you? Like Thea? You just ... what? Suggested a different memory?”

“It was safer to him to think it was the League,” Merlyn explains, back in control again. “It was necessary. The substance I treated Oliver with is volatile. It made Oliver volatile. Strong emotions override everything, even any amnesia. I couldn’t risk him recognising me.”

“You made him into an _assassin_.”

Merlyn smiles, triumph sparking in his eyes.  “And don’t you think the League will have noticed?”

She can’t take it any longer. She drops her elbows onto the table, her hands over her mouth, stifling the chant of, “oh god, oh god, oh god,” that she hadn’t even realised she’d started.

“Oliver might have lost the first duel with Ra’s,” Merlyn goes on, a sudden fervour in his tone. “But he’s seen Ra’s fight now. He won’t make the same mistakes the second time around.”

The words echo in her head.

The second time.

_The second time._

She lifts her hands from her mouth slowly.

“You think he’s going to fight Ra’s al Ghul again?”

It feels a bit like falling. She’s sitting still, she can feel the chair beneath her and the floor under her heels, but still she is falling. Down, down, down. It’s a swooping, sick feeling and she tightens her hand on the tablecloth, trying to ground herself.

Merlyn actually looks like he pities her.

And that, more than anything, is what really pisses her off.

“You son of a bitch.”

The pity drops from Merlyn’s face, half a smirk replacing it.

And she knows then, that he thinks it’s over. He thinks he’s won.

So she does the only thing she can think of, the only thing that might wipe that smug smile of his face.

“Did you know that I control a number of twitter accounts?” she says, changing the subject as abruptly as Merlyn did earlier. “Kind of useful for alibis sometimes.”

She reaches for her phone and calmly, efficiently taps out the keys she needs.

“This particular one is a real gossip,” she says brightly, nodding to her phone. “Spoiled little society girl, y’know the type. ‘OMG I saw Oliver Queen in that new club last night’, that kind of thing. The tabloids _love_ her.”

Merlyn just listens impassively, arms folded.

“9789 followers … and oops! Guess who she just tweeted about seeing this morning?”

She spins the phone, flashing Merlyn a picture of him on the street outside the restaurant not ten minutes earlier. His eyes narrow, ever so slightly, and a fleeting thrill of triumph runs through her.

“#MalcolmMerlynLives,” she says cheerfully, slipping the phone back into her bag and breathing out a steadying sigh. “I give it … oh, maybe ten minutes before that’s trending in Starling City.”

She makes sure to slow, ever so slightly, to murmur in his ear as she passes him on her way out.

“If I were you, I’d start running now.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM THERE IT IS. Hope I surprised you! Took some major liberties with lazarus pits here, but I was trying to reimagine them into something that could feasibly crop up in the gritty Arrow universe.  
> Only a short chapter but I wanted the big reveal to stand on it's own. And although there's no Felicity/Oliver interaction here, after this we're onto the home straight of this story and it's pretty much solid Olicity interaction from ch9 onwards.... :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thanks for sticking with this story. We're onto the final stretch now and I'm super excited about this and the next chapter, which are my absolute favourites...

 

* * *

 

 

Felicity waits until she’s ten paces from the restaurant before she starts to run.

By the time she slips into her car, she’s already pinged Thea’s phone and sent Roy her location with a hurried order to keep an eye on her. Pretty impressive while running in heels, but then again she’s hardly new to working on the move.

“I’ll explain later,” she promises when Roy calls, her mind moving even faster than her car, which just now is breaking the speed limit by a frightening amount as she emerges onto the road. “Just don’t let her out of your sight.”

She gets to the Foundry in thirteen minutes flat.

Fourteen minutes and she’s parked, heels clicking across the concrete as she hurries inside.

Fifteen minutes, she’s in Verdant.

And that’s as far as she gets.

She stops suddenly, momentum making her sway and overbalance. She’s skipped a breath somewhere and now she can’t breathe, can’t seem to fill her lungs. Grabbing the railing, she sinks onto the cold metal steps by the bar and drops her bag from her numb fingers.

There’s maybe forty paces between her and the door that leads down to Oliver and she can’t make herself take a single one of them.

Dropping her head into her hands, she gives herself a minute to freak out.

But the universe, which she’s previously decided has seriously got it in for her, doesn’t even allow her that.

At _thirty-two Mississippi,_ a shadow falls over her.

“Felicity?”

_Of course._

She takes her head out of her hands and looks up at Oliver.

His eyes are bright and his hair is short again, just like it used to be.

And that’s when she really starts to lose it.

“Woah, woah, what’s wrong?” He drops onto the step beside her, his whole side pressed against her. Hip to hip, thigh to thigh. He’s warm and familiar and all she can hear is Malcolm Merlyn’s voice. _The second time._

She covers her mouth with one hand and cries. Big, heaving, embarrassing sobs that shake her whole frame. And fuck, suppressing her feelings to get through the past few weeks was all well and good until right now. It’s impossible to talk, to breathe, to stop.

“I can’t ...” Her voice is useless, swallowed up by great heaving gasps of breath. “I just got you b-back.”

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, panic barely concealed behind his comforting words. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He takes her free hand in his, pulling it over to rest on his thigh. “Felicity.”

He says her name firmly and she anchors herself to the sound, to the feel of his rough hand on hers, the warmth of him pressed beside her. Slowly, she turns his hand over to reveal the new jagged scar across his forearm. She traces it with a finger and he shudders under her touch.

“I went to see Malcolm Merlyn.”

He stiffens beside her, his whole body going rigid.

“Alone? Why?”

“To find out what happened to you,” she hiccups.

His breath catches. “And?”

The hand that’s held in his trembles. The feeling travels right up her arm and into her chest until she’s shaking all over.

Oliver tightens his hold on her hand and drops his head forwards, turning to look at her. “Tell me,” he says quietly, a request rather than an order. “I can handle it.”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. He is determined, stoic, ready. She’s not.

“Come on,” she says, standing up suddenly and tugging him towards the door to downstairs. “Dig should hear this too.”

She can’t say it up here, with the vaulted ceiling and all this open space. She needs their cave, with his arrows around her, the comfort of the low light and the familiar hum of her computers.

 

* * *

 

Diggle’s not even surprised when she tells him where she spent her morning.

“You found him, then?”

“What?” She blinks. “You knew I was looking?”

He rolls his eyes. “Felicity. C’mon. You weren’t that subtle.”

She manages a weak chuckle. “Oh.”

“You shouldn’t have gone alone though,” Dig says and Oliver grumbles his agreement.

The two of them stand in front of her, two sets of folded arms and furrowed brows, a solid wall that she’d like to hide behind forever.

“Go on,” Oliver prompts. “Tell me.”

By the time she’s told the story, her voice is an empty shell and there’s fury in Dig’s usually gentle eyes.

Oliver staggers, taking half a pace back. His hand twitches, a phantom bow string between his fingers. “I should have known–”

“We all assumed–”

Oliver waves a hand carelessly, dismissing Dig’s argument. “Merlyn always has a Plan B,” he grits out, voice hard. “I should have seen that coming.”

“It’s not your fault, Oliver,” Felicity insists, stepping forward and reaching for his arm.

She stops halfway because the gaze her turns on her is empty and strange, a look she hasn’t seen since he first came back.

“No,” she breathes the word, voice hardly audible. Pushing forward, she closes her hand over his arm and he looks down at it, curiously detached.

“I need you to focus,” she instructs him, voice surprisingly steady. “Think about Thea, Oliver. You have to remember. Everything, please. _Right now_.”

Dig and Oliver look at her with matching frowns and god, she can’t believe they don’t understand how much this matters.

“If Ra’s is going to come for you again, and Merlyn obviously thinks he will eventually, you need to know what you’re fighting for. Or you won’t stand a cha–”

“I can’t beat him–”

“I didn’t say you had to fight him,” she corrects, holding his arm so hard that her fingers ache. The idea’s still taking shape in her mind as she speaks it, but oh, it’s kind of a good one. It might even work. “That’s what Merlyn wants.”

“You want me to reason with him?” Oliver asks, his voice still strangely flat. “With _The Demon’s Head_?”

“Maybe,” she says, desperation seeping in. “Think about it. I doubt Ra’s al Ghul is in the habit of playing into his enemies hands. And I _know_ you’re not.”

“It might work,” Dig mutters, blowing out a breath.

“Only if you know who you are,” Felicity says, tugging Oliver’s arm to make him look down at her. His face is still blank and empty and no, no, no, he still doesn’t _understand_. “Only if you know what you stand to lose. Please, Oliver. C’mon. You have to remember.”

Oliver moves so quickly she barely has time for an intake of breath before his lips press to her forehead. She grabs his t-shirt with one hand, curling the material into her fist as the memory of last time crashes around her until she’s not sure what’s real anymore, if it’s still February or if she’s living December all over again.

“Ok,” he murmurs against her forehead when he pulls away.

It's not goodbye, but he still walks away, up the stairs and out the door.

Again.

 

* * *

 

The text from Roy arrives a few hours later.

Three words that give her the energy to get up from her chair in the Foundry, and go home.

_He’s with Thea._

When Oliver finally knocks on her door, altogether too many hours after that, she’s had just enough time to go from scared, to angry, to really fucking livid.

She opens her door and he’s just standing there, right as rain. His eyes are dark and the evening sky behind him is heavy with rain and all she can think is, well, shit, maybe Starling really is his city. The weather’s finally starting to match his moods.

He opens his mouth to speak and she feels a jolt of relief to see that there’s feeling there again. Trepidation, penitence and maybe, just because she knows him well enough to spot it, a tiny shiver of fear.

She holds up her hand, silencing him before he can say anything.

When she turns around and stalks into her living room, he follows without a word.

“Are you alright?” she bites out because she has to know that first. Before she kills him herself, for walking out again with nothing more than the murmured, “ok” that she didn’t understand.

He nods.

“And does Thea know where you are?” she asks, picturing his sister abandoned in their Loft. A swoop of guilt makes her stomach turn over.

He nods again and she spins on her heel instead of talking more, turning her back on him and heading into the kitchen. She throws a look over her breakfast bar and sees that he’s still where she left him, standing in her living room. He’s rolling his fingers nervously and she thinks, wildly, _good._

She pulls down two mugs, throwing two of her mint tea bags into them and clashing around haphazardly. He doesn’t drink much tea and she doesn’t want any, but apparently she’s making it anyway. When the kettle’s full and the stove’s lit under it, she storms back into the lounge.

“You just walked out,” she says, as if this is a conversation they’re carrying on. “You didn’t tell me where you were going. It’s been _hours_ , Oliver. ” She waves an accusing hand at him, and he flinches at the movement. “You don’t get to do that, anymore.”

“I’m sorry, but I–”

She throws up a hand again and he swallows the rest of his sentence, snapping his mouth shut.

“You died, Oliver! You _died_.” Her voice cracks. He’s standing right in front of her, alive and safe, but when she says the words she can still taste the bitter emptiness of those days without him, right in the back of her throat. “And y’know, what the worst part of it was? It was right after you left. It was _not knowing_. So I’m sorry, but screw you and your moods, you never walk out on me like that again.”

As if on cue, the kettle whistles and she storms back out to the kitchen again, letting the anger fill her right up, choking out anything else.

She feels, rather than hears, him follow.

He is a shadow looming over her as she pours out the boiling water, his presence a solid warmth at her back. There’s a space between them but she can feel him anyway, heat skipping over the distance between them.

“Felicity,” he says her name softly.

Tears prick the back of her eyes and she shakes her head, though she’s not sure why.

“Felicity, I remember,” he says, his voice a whisper over the shell of her ear. “I remember everything.”

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to raise the rating for this chapter.  
> Just saying....

* * *

 

Very slowly, she lowers the kettle and sets it down on the side.

He doesn’t say anything else, just stands there, barely an inch away. He’s so close, she can feel him breathing.

The tea cools on her counter, steam spiralling into the darkening room.

“How?” she asks, not quite trusting her voice to form the words. “Why now?”

He sighs and she feels it ghost over the back of her neck.

“Well, you asked me to,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

She lets out a choked sound that might be his name and falls back into him. As soon as her back hits his chest, as though the movement has granted him permission, his hands land on her shoulders, steadying her.

“What? Just like that?” she asks, turning slowly to face him.

He leaves his arms hovering just off her shoulders as she spins toward him. Once she’s facing him again, they drop right back down, settling heavy and warm on the tops of her arms.

“You remember?” He’s so tall. In her socks, she’s only just about level with the hollow of his throat. “Really?”

He hums in agreement.

She closes the distance between them with one intake of breath and then she’s laughing or crying or both, looping her arms around him and not letting go.

Oliver is the strongest person she’s ever met so a tremble runs right through her when his whole frame drops and he just ... _weakens_ , right into her arms. He lets out one long shuddering breath into her hair and then his hold tightens, strength returning.

When he lets her go she is warm, all over, right down to her toes. She runs a finger under her glasses, chasing the tears away.

“You cut your hair,” she says, because it seems a safe enough topic and she didn’t acknowledge it earlier. He runs a hand over the short length and when her stomach swoops in a dangerous way she thinks, _oh_. Maybe nothing’s safe.

“It didn’t feel right,” Oliver explains, with a quirk of his lips, “and you hated it.”

Her jaw drops and she snaps it shut, with effort. “I thought I was quite discreet about that.”

“Not really,” he says, an affectionate smirk crossing his face.

“I’m still mad at you, y’know,” she reminds him, folding her arms and trying to look stern. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know,” he says, blue eyes downcast and suitably chastised. “I’m sorry.”

“Not like I can stay mad at you now, is it?” she scowls, “since you only ran off to ... pull your brain back together. God, you’re infuriating sometimes,” she adds, smacking his chest with a half laugh that tells him she’s only halfway serious.

Oliver smiles, a proper, full blown smile, and she suddenly feels altogether too close to him to cope.

“But ... you’re sure you really remember everything?” she asks, stepping back and leaning against her kitchen counter.

“It was all still there, I think.” He blows out a long breath. “I just had to let myself feel it.”

“Where’d you go?” she asks, sniffing away the final remnants of her tears.

“All over,” he says vaguely, mirroring her posture and leaning against her breakfast bar, the few feet of her tiny kitchen between them. “Anywhere I could think of. The mansion. It’s still empty. The Clock Tower, that’s a building site, they’re re-doing it, Queen Consol–” He stops himself, and corrects the name. “Palmer Industries, I mean. My mom’s grave. And Sara’s. Tommy’s, too.”

“All those graves.” She doesn’t mean to voice the thought but it slips out anyway.

Oliver smiles, sadly. “Yeah.”

“How’d it go with Thea?” she asks, because the last thing she wants to talk about is graves. “Roy texted me when you were there,” she adds, by way of explanation.

Oliver scrubs a hand over his face, sighing. “Not well.”

“Did you tell her about Sara?”

“Not yet,” he says quickly, with a huff of frustration. “I couldn’t do it. Not after everything she’s been through. She was so happy to see me. I just ... couldn’t take that away from her. I will tell her, somehow, just ... not yet.”

“But you told her about–?” She mimes shooting an arrow and he chuckles, weakly.

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“I told her I got injured in a fight, and I couldn’t come home ‘til today.” Sighing, he blows out a frustrated breath. “More lies.”

“Hey,” she says, kicking out her sock-covered foot to poke at his shoes. “You did the best you could. You’ll figure it out.”

He smiles down at her socks (thick, stripy, with a fox on the toes).

“Did she say anything about Merlyn?”

“Just that he’s going to be out of town for a while, apparently.” He lifts his eyes to flash her an approving smile. “Nicely done, by the way.”

She dips her head self-consciously, acknowledging the praise.

“Felicity.” He says her name like a question.

He’s nervous and it’s so rare a look on him, so unfamiliar, that it makes her strangely uneasy. Suddenly she thinks she knows what’s coming. _All those graves_. Right. Of course. God, he’s going to say it all over again. He wants to, but he can’t. His life is dangerous.

Thanks for bringing me back and all, but nothing’s changed.

Oh, how can he? She’s just so _disappointed_.

“I realised something today,” he begins, haltingly, “at the cemetery. Those graves. That could have been me.”

She closes her eyes, waiting for the blow to fall.

“I got lucky.”

She opens her eyes.

“I get another chance,” he goes on, pushing off the counter, coming up closer to her. “Mostly thanks to you.”

There’s no twist of guilt in Oliver’s eyes, none of the sadness she expected. He’s smiling, actually, and just like that her whole universe changes.

“You saved me, y’know. I didn’t even know my own name,” he says, looking at her with something close to wonder in his eyes. “And I killed again. But you didn’t give up on me.”

She shakes her head, so violently it makes her glasses slip down her nose. “Never. Nope. Not a chance.”

“I put you through hell, Felicity.”

“But you’re _you_ again now,” she says quickly, wiping impatiently at the tears on her cheeks. “So it was worth it.”

“Was it?” he asks, in a broken voice that tugs at something deep within her. After all this time, he really doesn’t know if he deserves this kind of loyalty.

She nods. And oh god, she means it. Every empty day since he came home is nothing, nothing at all, in exchange for a moment this _full_. Oliver standing in her kitchen, looking at her like this. Choosing life.

“Felicity, I know I hurt you,” he goes on, pushing the words out fast as if he’s afraid his courage will desert him. It doesn’t, because he’s the bravest person she knows. “And I want you to know that I’m sorry. For _everything_. ”

Somehow his trembling voice manages to make that one word encompass all of it at once  - pushing her away, leaving her, coming back in pieces. _Everything_. She blinks, once, twice, three times. And he’s still standing there, heart in his hands, holding it out to her.

Oliver opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he shakes his head, smiling at his own nervousness.

Her heart swells because she knows what’s coming right before he says it.

“I love you, Felicity. And I don’t want to be without you anymore.”

He says it so plainly and god, she can’t believe this is actually happening. Right here. In her kitchen.  Because sometimes you don’t know a conversation is going to be a life changing one until it’s already happening and it’s too late, you’re just ... _in your kitchen_. Abandoned mugs of tea on the counter, breakfast dishes in the sink, your fruit bowl sitting there with one lonely satsuma left.

“And I know it wouldn’t be easy,” Oliver goes on, nervousness finally showing in his voice, making the words skip right off his tongue. “I’m–”

“Grumpy?” she supplies without thinking and wow, now seems an absurdly stupid time to be trying to lighten the mood but her mouth runs on anyway, as always. “Guarded? A complete magnet for danger? The sort of person who actually has _duels_?”

Oliver huffs half a laugh, nodding vaguely at her description. “I’m saying... I realise that I can be difficult, sometimes. I’m ... I-I’m not the easiest pers–”  

Oh. He’s giving her an out.

The gesture is so absurdly unnecessary that she almost laughs.

“Hey, you think I don’t know all that?” Pushing off the counter, she steps into his personal space and looks right up into the blue eyes she knows so well. She tilts her head, considering him. Her wonderful, idiotic, hero.

“I don’t just love the nice parts of you, y’know.”

Oliver’s eyes blow wide and oh boy, now she’s done it.

She wasn’t supposed to say it like this, in her kitchen, in a threadbare college t-shirt and sweatpants, tears still drying on her cheeks. She was supposed to be ready. And pretty. She was supposed to say it _properly._ Clear words in a clear voice.

Only now it’s done, she wouldn’t have it any of the ways she dreamed. Because not even her fevered imagination could have conjured up the look that’s crossing Oliver’s face right now.  She realises something, right then and there. Everyone got it so wrong. All the people who told her, when he was gone and she was in pieces, that he always _knew,_ they were all so wrong. This isn’t the face of someone who knew this, not really, this is the face of someone who didn’t dare believe it until right now.

She lifts a hand to rest it, palm flat over the Bratva tattoo that she knows is there, under the soft fabric.

His lower lip trembles and oh she could kiss him, right there, right where he’s falling apart.

With a surge of something akin to relief, she realises that she can.

So she reaches up, tip toe in her socks, and presses her lips to his.  

And yes, she has told herself a thousand times that life’s not a fairytale. Except now, when she kisses him and he just _wakes right up,_ it kind of is.

His hands come up to curl around her jaw and into her hair, which is tumbling loose around her shoulders. When she opens her mouth to him, his fingers tighten ever so slightly on her hair. She runs her hands over the powerful muscles of his back and he shudders under her, so she rakes her nails down, just to see if he trembles again. When he does, she feels a sudden surge of power. She’s tiny, her whole face fits under his hands, her whole body is blocked into the counter with his, but she can still make him shake.

Leaving her face, his hands wander, eventually finding the bottom of her shirt. When he slips them inside and up, big hands warm and heavy against her back, she sucks his bottom lip into her mouth and bites down, hard. He growls a desperate sound in his throat and the sound, god that sound, it _ruins_ her.

She pulls frantically at his shirt, trying to find a way under the hem. When she finally fumbles under the fabric, her hand skips over the new scar on his side and she stops, pulling away from the kiss with a gasp.

He looks at her questioningly, cocking his head to the side and her chest expands with a sudden surge of gratitude, that he is even standing her in front of her. She didn’t lose him to these new scars.

Slowly, she puts her hands on his face, the familiar itch of his stubble under her fingers.

He’s staggeringly beautiful, which is not a word she’s ever used to describe something that wasn’t clothes or computers before, but it _fits_.

She kisses him once, softly, insistently.

Oliver smiles against her lips and she thinks he might understand.

He tilts his head, changing the angle and when her glasses are biting into the bridge of her nose too much to ignore, she pulls back and reaches to remove them. Before she can, his hand bats hers gently away and he takes over. Slowly, with careful hands, he lifts them from her face and folds them up.

Oliver shakes his head, smiling to himself, as he places her glasses down on the counter and she wonders just how many times he’s imagined doing that. The look on his face says, _a lot._ Her stomach turns over at the thought.

The sight of her glasses, abandoned on the counter, is what finally makes it sink in. This is happening. Right now. She swallows, hard, as Oliver turns back to her, taking her face in his hands and smoothing away the few strands of hair that were pulled forwards with her glasses.

He leans in, slowly, inch by inch, and when his lips are hovering over hers, she sighs his name against his lips. The sound is strung out and desperate and it breaks something in him, some last modicum of control. Hands falling from her face, he grabs for her hips, pulling her against him and kissing her roughly. The sudden friction is perfect and yet not remotely enough at the same time, sending tendrils of fire down, down, down, until she’s canting her hips up, trying to get closer. But even with every hard line of him pressed against her, it doesn’t feel close enough. She needs more.

She pulls away from him with effort, mouth bruised. “Oliver,” she pants his name, which is not remotely sexy except he makes a noise in the back of his throat because oh, apparently it is.

He lets go of her suddenly, the phantom pressure of his thumbs still on her hips. His gaze is darker than she’s ever seen it, his pupils blown wide and she did that, she made him lose control like that. A thrill runs through her, right to her centre.

“Ray, right?” he says, tightly.

“What? No!”

He blinks, nonplussed. “I thought–”

“No, n-no, no, no. No.” She huffs a laugh. “I’m strictly a one vigilante gal. It’s just that I think we can do better than the kitchen, is all.”

She takes his hand, tugging him with her.

“Wait, Ray’s a vigilante?” Oliver asks, still confused.

“Oh, right. Long story,” she says, with a look over her shoulder.

Looking back was a mistake. As soon as her eyes meet his, Oliver lets out a sound that should probably be illegal, something between a purr and growl, and tugs her arm until she’s facing him. Then, with purposeful steps that make her throat suddenly dry, he backs her up until she hits the cool of her fridge door.

She dimly registers that she can feel one of the magnets at her back, the diamond shape of a familiar sign digging right in. Her mom sent it to her, the week she moved into this place and she lets her head fall back, laughing, because it’s message is so absurdly perfect right now. _Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada._

Oliver drops his head to her throat, lips closing right where her laughter vibrates. Her laughter dies as he moves to trail a lazy, random path down and along her collarbone. There’ll be marks in the morning and her toes curl, because oh, ok, apparently she _likes_ that. She hums his name and his mouth closes over her throat again, right where she makes the sound.

And then, with a dip and surge, he picks her up.

Her legs go round him automatically and she can’t resist, she writhes a little against him, until the friction makes him grit out her name. She smiles wickedly and he shakes his head at her, eyes dark. He carries her out of the kitchen, her entire weight held up with one strong arm around her back and now she knows he’s just showing off, but she kind of doesn’t care.

They make it halfway down the hallway before he stops abruptly and she laughs into his open mouth when she realises it’s because he doesn’t know where her bedroom is.

He sets her down, laughing weakly too.

“Oh, did I ruin your big move?” she asks, dropping her head against his chest. And oh, she can’t believe she’s laughing. When she’s imagined this before and yes, she’s a girl with a healthy imagination and y’know, _eyes_ , so she’s definitely imagined this, there’s never any laughter. It’s always intense, Oliver all focus and purpose, her a breathy mess underneath him. She kind of likes reality better.

Oliver rolls his eyes, biting his lip to stop a smile.

“That way,” she says, pointing a finger over her shoulder to the right door.

“Right,” he says, with an undercurrent of anticipation that makes her breath stutter a little bit. “You want a big move?”

Without warning, he picks her up again, this time in a fireman’s lift. She shrieks, taken by surprise, as he throws her over his shoulder and strides to her door.

When they reach her room, he manoeuvres her down carefully, his thumbs brushing lightly against the side of her breasts as his hands close around her ribs. It’s only a featherlight touch, but she can’t help arching her back into the feeling anyway.

She stumbles a little as he sets her down and it’s silly, but that little action lets the nerves in.

Oliver stands over her, a shadowy silhouette in her dark room, looking taller and broader and stronger than ever. She thinks wildly that he could break half the trinkets on her dressing table with one careless twist of his hand. Suddenly, she feels small and slight and _not_ ready.

Oliver plays with the edge of her t-shirt and she casts her mind frantically back, to this morning and her choice of underwear. The traitorous thought slips in before she can stop it. _I bet Laurel’s lingerie always matches._

“Wait, this isn’t going to be like Buffy, is it?” she babbles the next thought, her hands flat on his chest. “Because you’re _you_ now, but if we do this and you wake up in the morning all ... _empty_ again, I don’t think I could handle that.”

Oliver’s reply is a familiar murmur, all affection and exasperation. “What?”

“Never mind,” she shakes her head, screaming at herself to just, for once in her life, _shut the fuck up_. “Forget I said that. Delete the last thirty seconds.” She stutters out a breath. “Just ... don’t change your mind, ok? Because there’s no going back here ... for me, I mean. You’re it, y’know?”

“Hey,” he says softly, ducking his head to catch her eye. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

Then he says it. “Felicity.” Her name. Every syllable rolled slowly, like he doesn’t want the sound to end.

And she remembers that he chose her. He wants her.

And oh, she wants him too.

Summoning the confidence from somewhere, she pulls her shirt over her head in one fluid motion and casts it aside. Oliver’s eyes drop to her chest instantly, snapping back up to her face when she hooks a finger into his belt, pulling him with her as she backs up towards her bed.

He follows her lead, like always, and she curses inwardly that there’s absolutely no seductive way to clamber backwards onto a bed. Except Oliver’s looking at her like maybe there is and it’s exactly the way she’s doing it now. He sheds his shirt, and it’s not like she’s never seen the view before but there’s something different about it now, in her room, in this half-light. She can’t take her eyes off him.

When she’s ready, he follows her and when he plants a knee between her open legs, stretching up and over her, she presses her head back into her pillow, enjoying the view. Oliver hovers over her, framing her body with his arms and she doesn’t mean to, isn’t trying to tease him, but she bites her lip and he lets out a strangled sound in the back of his throat at the action, before his lips finally descend on hers again.

Her fingers skip over the scars on his back, too many to count, reminding her with a flash of heat that it’s _Oliver_ , in her bed, in her arms.

Her brain short-circuits a little later, when her sweatpants have gone the same way as his jeans, round about the time his mouth starts to trail a hot, wet path, agonisingly slowly, down her stomach and beyond. Her thoughts spin away into nonsense, a blur of _he’s-not-he’s-not-he’s-not ...is-he?_ until he finally hooks a finger under the edge of her underwear and she’s a goner because _oh, he definitely is._

Half a smile crosses his face when he runs his thumb over the bright blue bow on her panties. He shakes his head as he pulls them down, smiling all the while, and she rolls her eyes because she needn’t have worried, apparently he kind of _likes_ the little bow and the ridiculous pattern of polka dots.

The last coherent thing she remembers is the sight of Oliver settled between her open legs, and the one long, desperate shiver of anticipation that shudders through her when he hums her name against her.

Everything after that reduces to a pleasant blur, a few random, disconnected moments piercing the fog, searing themselves into her memory.

The heavy weight of his arm on her stomach, pinning her in place while his tongue makes her forget her own name, but oh, remember his, the sound falling from her lips over and over.

The arch of her back and the perfect line of his jaw in the half-light of her bedroom, like she’s in bed with a god damn model or something.

The hiss he lets out as she closes her hand around him for the first time. His eyes are wild and her nails are pink ( _funtime fuchsia_ actually, her brain supplying the exact shade in a flash of absurd clarity). When he looks down at her hand, he swallows hard, blurting out her name.

The little frown-line that appears between his eyes when he tears the condom packet open because obviously, _obviously_ , his laser sharp focus extends to this task as well.

Her fumbling hands and his huffs of laughter, hot against her skin.

The total silence, even in her mile-a-minute brain, when he slides into her slowly, at last.

The achingly slow roll of his hips and the exact look in his dark eyes after she nips at his shoulder and murmurs one desperate order of, “ _more_.”

The desperate sound she makes, right into his ear, when she shudders apart again.  

He stutters out her name when he comes and god, she thought she’d catalogued every way he could ever say her name but this is different, this might be her new favourite.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the feedback on the last chapter, I totally blown away.  
> Without further ado, here it is - the penultimate chapter!

* * *

 

Funnily enough, Felicity starts to find the sight of Oliver training a _lot_ more distracting than she used to. 

And to think that once upon a time she’d actually thought that getting all that tension out would make her relax around him. Oh boy, no. Nope. Not even a little bit. Not now she knows what it feels like when those muscles are under her hands.

Diggle spars with Oliver every day as he gets weaker, unnatural strength fading until all that’s left is the strength he earned, day by day, on that Island and ever since. Lying there, face to the mat the morning that Diggle succeeds in flooring him, Oliver just smiles and smiles and smiles. Then he hops to his feet, lithe as a cat, to carry on. 

“Testing’s done,” Felicity calls, jerking her head at her screens to summon the boys over. “Aaand your white blood count’s normal again,” she announces grandly, spinning to face Oliver with a quick thumbs up. “If Caitlin was right and that was an indication of your body coping with Merlyn’s ‘treatment’, then it’s over now.”

Dig lets out a quick breath of relief before turning promptly to Oliver, his eyebrows raised in challenge. “Does this mean we can talk about the elephant in the room?”

Oliver’s eyes immediately slide to Felicity and woah, she hopes the heat under her cheeks isn’t showing quite as much as it feels like it is.

“Oh please,” Dig scoffs, “I wasn’t talking about _this_.” He flicks his index finger between her and Oliver. “Long overdue, if you ask me. N-no, I was talking about _that_.” 

Dig jerks his head to the case that holds Oliver’s bow and hood, still unused in the field. The smile slides right off Oliver’s face. “Diggle–”

“Look, I get you not wanting to go out until you were safe,” Dig says, clapping a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, “but you’re back to normal now. It’s time, Oliver.”

“He’s right,” Felicity puts in, turning away from the look of displeasure Oliver shoots her way. It’s been niggling her too, a little more every night, that he still hasn’t put the hood on yet. The last piece of him, still not quite slipping into place.

Oliver wanders over to the case, gazing up at the mannequin. “And if I lose control?” 

“You won’t,” Dig supplies, readily. “C’mon, you know that.”

Oliver lets out a grumble of doubt.

“Laurel and Roy need your help,” Dig goes on, oblivious to Oliver’s tight jaw and folded arms or more likely, choosing to ignore them. “It’s almost all-out war in the Glades. A new group is trying to take over the triad’s territory, all because _you_ killed their leader three weeks ago.”

Felicity sucks in a breath at the bland way Diggle says it but he flashes her a warning look that says he knows what he’s doing.

“It’s past time you cleaned up your mess, don’t you think?”

And with that, he slings a towel over his shoulder and heads out.

“Tonight, then,” Oliver calls after him, never one to back down from a challenge.

* * *

 

When night falls, Oliver is as taut as the string on his untouched bow.

Diggle, to his eternal credit, pretends not to notice. He just steps back, grabbing Roy’s arm and heading for the stairs with a loaded glance at Felicity. 

“We’ll be in the van,” he says, over his shoulder. “When you’re ready.”

Felicity keeps working, or at least she does a good job of pretending she’s working, when actually she’s watching Oliver in the reflection of her monitor. 

He’s struggling to suit up in a way she’s never seen before, his normally deft hands clumsy and slow. When his fingers slip, fumbling with the fastenings on the small quiver at his hip, he growls out a frustrated curse and drops heavily onto a stool. The second he does, Felicity is out of her chair, closing the distance between them with just a few clicks of her heels on the stone floor.

Oliver makes no move to stand up, so she’s actually almost able to loom over him for a change. A rush of tenderness floods through her at the reversal, mingled with something sweeter, something a lot like gratitude. She’s seen him broken and bleeding a hundred times but this is something quite different, and far rarer. The sight of him, not bothering to hide his shaking hands, speaks more of trust than split skin and sutures ever could. 

“Let me help,” she offers, reaching for the loose fastening.

“I can do it,” Oliver grinds out, raising his hands to ward her off. His jaw is tight, every muscle tense. “I just need a minute.”

“You don’t have a minute,” she says calmly, batting his hands away. He shoots her a dangerous look, the kind that might have worked a very long time ago, and she almost laughs because, _please_. When she raises her eyebrows and stares back at him, he just dips his head meekly, granting her permission. 

She presses the one loose strap flat to his thigh and when she threads the buckle tight, Oliver lets out a ragged sigh that makes her think fleetingly of _un_ buckling it. 

“Done,” she says, with a quick pat to his thigh.

Oliver’s half ready, leather pants and a dark t-shirt on, but his hood still sits on it’s mannequin, waiting. 

He spins on the stool to glance over at it, blowing out a long breath. His eyes cloud over, taking on a dark look that she’s seen a thousand times before and that she has always, always, wished away. 

Her stomach swoops because _oh_ , finally she might be able to do something about that.

So she reaches for him, closing her fingers into a fist and tucking them under his chin. He obeys the gentle pressure of her tiny hand instantly, letting her angle his face back towards her without a hint of resistance. She’d just wanted his eyes on her again but Oliver arches his back, lifting his chin up for a kiss. Smiling at the casual move, how he just expects this now, how he actually _leans_  up into it, she tilts her head down and presses a brief, chaste kiss against his lips. 

“You can do this,” she murmurs as they pull apart, unfurling her fingers to curl around his jaw. He parts his knees easily, letting her take another step closer to him, until there’s no space between them at all. “You’re not really _you_ if you’re not The Arrow, y’know. Not anymore.”

His head jerks in what might be a nod and she thinks  _finally_ he might understand that.

And then without a word, he leans into her, his arms going around her waist, his head settling heavy against the valley of her breasts. He lets out a shuddering breath that she matches, sigh for sigh, as she wraps her arms around him, one curling protectively around his neck.

“Felicity?”

She hums a response.

When he doesn’t say anything more, she says what she knows he won’t. “Are you scared?”  

“Yes.”

His voice is a murmur against her dress, a whispered confession that only she is allowed to hear. Somehow it feels more intimate than anything they’ve shared the past few nights and her heart swells, because this man, this _good_ man, is actually hers.

“Good,” she whispers back, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Scared is good. It means you know you’ve got something to lose.”

She lets him go and he nods a silent thank you, his hands lingering on her hips for just a fraction longer than necessary.

Stepping out of his embrace, she heads to the mannequin to pull his jacket down for him. Oliver stands and makes to take it from her, but she shakes her head a tiny fraction, holding it up and out for him instead.

“Let me?”

He just smiles, before spinning wordlessly and offering his arms for her to slip the jacket on and over his shoulders. When he turns back to face her, she lands her hands heavy on his shoulders, smoothing out some non-existent creases in the leather. 

He’s still smiling down at her, fond and easy and lighter than she’s seen him in a long time. She grins back up, opening her mouth to say something flippant about how green kind of suits him, but the words never quite make it past her throat. The memory of stripping the black tunic of the League from his chest intrudes suddenly, as crystal clear as if it was only yesterday. She sucks in a sharp breath, her hands fumbling with the zip. 

“Felicity?”

Suddenly she can’t bring herself to look up, at the steady gaze and worried eyes that will probably make her fall apart. She stares down instead, eyes settling on the green leather of his jacket, which is blurring in a way that tells her there are tears swimming in her eyes right now.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” Oliver’s hands cover her own, stilling her frantic movements and taking over. “I’ve got it.”

His voice is a quiet rumble, concerned but trying to hide it, and she laughs, quietly, because she’s not sure when they traded places in this conversation.

“Sorry,” she mutters, flashing him a half smile that she doesn’t really mean. “It’s just … bad memories, that’s all.”

“About?” he asks, his hands covering her shoulders. 

It’s not quite a hug but it’s exactly enough, just the gentle pressure of his hands holding her steady while she pulls herself together. The solid expanse of him eclipses the rest of the Foundry, a warm barrier of leather and steady breaths, rising and falling in front of her. She leans forward, dropping her forehead to rest against the top of his chest, matching her breathing with his for a count of _1, 2, 3_. 

“I was thinking about when we found you,” she mumbles into his chest, when her count hits _3_. 

The second the words leave her lips, he sucks in a breath like he’s in pain, and she feels a brief flash of sadness for being the one to cause that.

“You know what, it’s stupid. Ignore me.” She pulls back, shaking her head sharply. 

“It’s not stupid,” he objects immediately, squeezing her shoulders gently, “and I could never ignore you.”

“I’m going to hold to you that, mister,” she jokes, weakly.

“I bet,” he says, his voice a warm huff of breath across her hairline. “Y’know, I … I don’t really remember much about when I first got back to the city,” he goes on, haltingly, as though he’s not sure she’ll want to hear this, “but I do remember looking for you. I had _no_ idea why. I just had to find you.”

“You followed me home,” she reminds him, feeling a smile work it’s way onto her face at the memory.

“I did,” he says warmly, and she’s still so close that she feels his voice as much as hears it, a steady rumble from his chest. “Every single night.”

He looks down at her, eyes soft, and she wonders if somehow he understands what that one spot of light in the shadows of those days had meant to her. With a flash of gratitude, she realises that if he doesn’t know, she can just _tell_ him. Because they do that now. In the dark of her bedroom. Under the harsh lights of the Foundry. They tell each other things. 

“I held onto that, y’know,” she says, setting her hands on his waist, the leather cool under her hands. “When everything else was … well, terrible, basically. You following me home, it m-mattered. It’s how I knew you had to be in there somewhere.”

Oliver nods, her favourite half-smile playing on his lips.

“But,” she adds, shaking off the heavy moment and raising her eyebrows up at him, “I have to admit I like it much better when you come home _with_ me instead on ten paces behind me on a rooftop.”

“Me too.” His lips quirk, almost without effort, as if he can’t help but smile when she does.

“You should go,” she says, jerking her head to the door. “Dig and Roy are waiting.”

“You sure you’re alright?” Something in his voice makes her understand, without a shadow of a doubt, that he won’t leave the Foundry if she’s not. And that simple truth is exactly why it’s not a lie when she nods her head at him.

“Yes.” His whole frame relaxes at her words. “Now go,” she adds, shooing him away, “save people. Catch some bad guys.”

“Right,” he says, turning back to his kit and running a distracted hand over his hair.

She takes the stool he vacated, spinning idly while he slips his quiver over his back and attaches the flechettes to his wrist. His hands are steady now, no hint of his earlier nervousness remaining. He catches her staring but doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head and bites back a smile.

“Well, will I do?” he asks quietly, arms open, when he’s slipped the mask into place last.

She swallows hard, over the lump in her throat, because yes, yes, _yes_ , he’ll do just fine. Not quite able to speak, she stands up and lifts the Hood up and over his face. Then, with a fierce pull on the edges of the hood, she pulls him down to her and kisses him once, hard. And wow, there’s a bucket list moment right there. She wonders if she’s blushing again. It feels like she is.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” she says, tapping the comm switch on his jacket, right over his heart.

His face is a shadow under the hood but she swears there’s a smile under there as he turns to go.

 

* * *

  

If The Arrow goes up the stairs, then she’s pretty sure it’s Oliver Queen who walks back down them.

Felicity spins from her position in front of the monitors, rising to greet him, Diggle and Roy as they jog down the last few steps. Oliver’s hood is down, his mask around his neck.

“Well?” she asks, though she already knows the answer. 

She’d heard his usual line, clear as day over the comms as he secured the wannabe gang-lord for SCPD to collect, “You have failed this city.” (She hadn’t been able to resist then, a whisper only into his channel, “ _you_ haven’t.”)

Oliver slips off his quiver, casting it aside silently. Felicity watches as he heads straight to the largest touchscreen, calling up the pictures of wanted criminals in Starling to tap out the faces they’ve just put away, a spark of satisfaction in his eyes.

Then he swoops, closing the distance between them so fast she’s barely ready for it, and picks her up in a bone-crushing hug. She gasps out a laugh as he swings her, haphazardly, in a quick circle before setting her down again without a single word. She steadies herself with a hand on his arm, blushing as she spies Diggle and Roy over his shoulder, identical smirks on their faces.

And for one single wonderful second, everything is fine.

Then the door release sounds upstairs and they all turn at the same time, expecting Laurel. But it’s more than one set of footsteps treading down the metal stairs and when the first black-clad stranger rounds the corner, they all know, straight away, who is coming.

And that’s when Felicity does the bravest and the stupidest thing she’s ever done in her entire life.

She steps in front of Oliver and puts herself between him and Ra’s al Ghul.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I'd let this story end without one last cliffhanger did you?!  
> The final chapter is ready, so I promise I won't leave you hanging too long...


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

Oliver, Diggle, and Roy breathe in at once, three identical gasps of surprise behind her.

Felicity feels tiny, a slip of a girl in front of a giant.

Still, she doesn’t look away.

She just takes a deep breath and says, quite simply, “No.”

Oliver’s hand closes over her wrist immediately, trying to tug her safely behind him. She lets him move her back a little, but no further than right by his side.

Ra’s al Ghul just watches this all happen, a curious twist to his eyes.

“You have spirit, child,” he says eventually.

Felicity blinks, surprised, because she’d expected fire and fury but the voice of the master assassin is surprisingly soft.

Two black-clad guards take up position either side of Ra’s and Felicity sees Roy and Diggle move to line up either side of her and Oliver. They are hopelessly outmatched but right now, heroes at either side of her, she feels like they could do just about anything.

“I’ve no desire to fight you again,” Oliver says, his voice carefully neutral. It’s only because she knows him so well, knows every single inflection of his voice, that she can hear the tension buried beneath.

“I can well imagine.” Ra’s almost smiles and the effect is a chill over the room, rolling cold over her skin.

“This is all Malcolm Merlyn’s plan, you know,” Felicity puts in quickly, trying not to tremble when Ra’s’ dark eyes settle back on her. Oliver squeezes her wrist so tight it hurts, but she ignores the pressure. “This is exactly what he wants. He went and found Oliver, after you–”

Her voice dies in her throat suddenly, mid-word, as if a spell’s been cast. She can’t say it. Not now. Not to the man who _made_ those scars.

_After you killed him._

“Merlyn brought him back,” she says instead, skipping ahead. “All so he could fight you again.”

Oliver’s grip on her wrist tightens, like a vice.

“This is true?” Ra’s asks, turning to Oliver.

Lies, blended with the truth, trip seamlessly off Oliver’s tongue. Looking at Ra’s, at the timeless rage behind in his eyes, Felicity understands with a shock of certainty that if Oliver told him the truth of Merlyn’s theft, Ra’s would kill every single person in this room, just for hearing of that failure. She sends up a silent prayer of thanks that she, Roy and Diggle manage not to betray their surprise when Oliver names Mirakuru as the source of his survival.

“It’s effects are powerful, as I’m sure the League remembers. Merlyn intended it to help me defeat you, for his own gain. I suggest,” Oliver says, inclining his head respectfully, “that we find an alternative to acting out Malcolm Merlyn’s wishes for him.”

That’s when Felicity realises, with a jolt that makes her choke down a gasp, that Oliver is doing exactly what she suggested the day she met with Merlyn. Right now, facing the most dangerous man she’s ever seen, it seems a pathetically feeble plan. Still, her heart expands at his efforts. If there was ever any doubt that Oliver had abandoned killing, it’s this. It’s him standing here, choosing reason over violence, faced with the Demon’s Head himself.

If it’s possible to love him more, she does.

Ra’s doesn’t answer, just turns and dismisses his guard with a simple nod of his head. They troop out obediently, up the stairs and out the door. Felicity’s watches them go, no idea whether it’s a good or bad sign.

“You did not kill Ta-er al-Sahfer, I think.” Ra’s says it so blandly that Felicity realises he has probably known this all along.

Oliver shakes his head. “Yes, I did.”

Ra’s tilts his head to the side as he considers Oliver’s words. “No,” he says, in a dangerously soft voice. “How did Malcolm Merlyn know where to find you if he did not know where to look? No, Mr Queen, I think Merlyn sent you to me. You came in place of another.”

Oliver falls silent beside her, his jaw snapping shut, tension radiating off him in waves.

He will never name Thea, she knows, but as it turns out he doesn’t have to.

“Your sister."

Oliver moves to shake his head, to deny it, but Ra’s raises one hand, eyes cold.

“Who else would you tell such a lie for, Mr Queen?” he says, gaze narrowing ever so slightly.

Ra’s flits his eyes to Felicity and she wants to shrink back behind Oliver, away from this ageless stare, but she grits her teeth and looks right back at him.

“This one has no blood on her,” Ra’s goes on, still considering her. “It leaves a mark,” he explains, simply, “one that cannot be hidden from my eyes.”

Oliver stays silent, jaw set.

“Merlyn forced your sister’s hand, did he not?” Ra’s shakes his head slowly. There’s no outward sign that he’s angry, but she feels it all the same. “He knew you would willingly pay the blood debt for her. He flaunts the League’s laws at every turn.”

This time there’s no disguising his anger. It darkens his eyes, curls his lip.

“To take a life is a sacred thing,” he goes on, almost reverently, “Merlyn dishonours this when he forces another’s hand.”

Oliver shakes his head. “I killed Sara Lance. No-one else.”

The two men stare at each other until Ra’s flicks his gaze to his left and right, indicating the lack of his guard. Then he deliberately trails his eyes from Oliver, lingering on Diggle, Roy and Felicity.

Taking his cue, Oliver steps forward, dropping his hand from Felicity’s wrist. She reaches out a hand to stop him, fear making her nails dig into the leather of his jacket.

“Don’t.”

Oliver turns back to her and she gasps a quick intake of breath, because his eyes are bright and serene and bluer than ever. There’s a lightness there, that says he knows what he’s doing, that says, _trust me_. She holds his gaze for a minute, letting that strength soak into her skin, into her bones.

Oliver leans in quickly and for one horrible moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her forehead again. Instead he brushes his lips against hers and she understands that this time, he is not saying goodbye.

Still, her heart sinks, right down to the tips of her toes. It’s been so tempting, in the warm light of her bedroom, his skin against hers, to tell herself that it would always be so easy. But standing here now, faced with letting him go, she knows that was never true. She’s helped him knit himself back together, but if she really believes in him, believes he’s back, believes he loves her, then she can’t fight his battles for him. That’s not loving him.

This is, she realises, as she lets go of his arm, just so he doesn’t have to make her.

This is loving him.

Letting him go.

Because she trusts him to come back to her.

It _costs_ but god, she’ll pay the price if it means he gets to be hers.

 

* * *

 

She can’t hear what’s being said as the two men pace a distant corner of the Foundry, heads inclined. Still she watches, trying to divine what’s happening from the slope of Oliver’s shoulders or the column of his throat.

She vaguely remembers reading somewhere once that time seems to move faster the older you get but right now, with her heart in her mouth, she decides that’s complete bullshit. Every excruciating second of this is a lifetime.

Nobody moves, nobody even breathes, when Ra’s al Ghul finally turns to leave.

Oliver follows him and then Felicity does start to move, to chase, a scream already building. But Oliver goes as far as the foot of the stairs and no further, stopping there to watch Ra’s al Ghul walk away. Felicity claps a hand over her mouth, stifling the cry that’s still caught halfway up her throat.

When the steel door finally closes, they all draw breath at once.

Dig and Roy collapse into the nearest chairs without a word as Oliver walks back towards them with purposeful steps, quiet triumph in his eyes.

She meets him halfway, still caught somewhere between terror and relief. It feels like floating, detached and strange but oh god, kind of amazing when she realises there’s no sudden drop waiting.

“Did Ra’s al Ghul just–”  She looks wildly around at all three of them. “Did he - is this - _did he just leave_ _?!_ ”

She doesn’t know who laughs first, but then they all are, even Oliver managing a weak chuckle. It’s half relief, half hysteria and her chest hurts but in a good way, in a way it hasn’t hurt in a long time.

“How the hell did you pull that off?” Dig asks, when the laughter finally recedes.

“I paid the blood debt,” Oliver explains, reaching for Felicity’s hand and intertwining their fingers. She stutters out a breath at the contact. “He considers the debt paid. And since my survival wasn’t my doing, or the League’s–”

“So Ra’s is holding it against Merlyn?” Felicity huffs out half a sharp laugh. “Ha! I think I have to start believing in Karma now.”

“But ... Thea’s safe?” Roy asks urgently, running a hand over his brow.

Oliver nods. “I guess Merlyn didn’t count on Ra’s al Ghul having more honor than he does.”

“Oh, thank god.” Roy lets out a strangled moan, hand over his mouth. “B-but what about Merlyn? What happens now?”

“Well, Merlyn was right about one thing - I did learn something the first time I fought Ra’s,” Oliver explains, smiling slightly, “but it wasn’t how to kill him. Y’know, Ra’s al Ghul’s first kill was for his family–”

“So what? He’s just gonna _let_ you deal with Merlyn?” Dig blows out a breath. “I’m not buying that.”

“Not exactly,” Oliver allows, “more like ... we’ll see which of us gets to him first. Me in Starling, or the League elsewhere.”

Diggle shakes his head, still dumbfounded. “Well ... I can definitely live with that.”

“So ... that’s it? May the best man win?” Roy asks, eyebrows raised.

Oliver shrugs. “Sort of.”

“Well, we know who that’s going to be,” Felicity says warmly, tugging gently on Oliver’s hand.

“We’ll give you guys a minute.” Dig’s words are an echo of another day but her heart swells, suddenly light, because this moment could not be more different.

“Make it more than a minute,” Oliver throws out dangerously, not taking his eyes off her.

“Ugh,” Roy groans, but there’s an undercurrent of amusement in there that he can’t quite disguise.

“Keep it in your leather pants, Oliver,” Dig mutters cheerfully, clapping him on the back on his way out. “At least until you guys get home.”

Roy and Diggle’s footsteps recede quickly up the stairs but still Felicity can’t quite wait, she surges up on her toes and presses her lips to Oliver’s smiling mouth.

Her kisses are chaotic. It’s all clashing teeth and her hands, god, her hands _cannot_ keep still. They’re everywhere at once, in his hair and on his hips and tracing his jaw, grabbing at the cool leather of his jacket, tugging it sharply because he’s too far away, too tall. It’s messy and undignified and she thinks she might have started crying somewhere because her eyes are burning, but she doesn’t care. Because she’s just realised something and the truth of it is burrowing right into her soul, into her bones. When he breaks for breath, she says it, right against his open mouth, “it’s over.”

Oliver tightens his hold on her, murmuring that he’s not going anywhere, that her loves her, and that feeling in her chest, expanding like a balloon, is joy, isn’t it? God, it’s been a while.

She pulls back, takes his face into her hands and kisses him again, slowly this time.

Like they have all the time in world.

Because actually, _for once_ , they do.

 

* * *

 

“You know I still can’t believe you pulled it off,” she says, much later, when they’re tangled together in his bed and she’s finally found out just how good _we-survived-almost-certain-death_ sex really is (very, very, very good, as it happens). “Talking Ra’s al Ghul round like that.”

“Well, somebody told me I could,” Oliver says simply, smiling at her with a look of such devastating _fondness_ that she kisses him, instead of answering, just because she can.

And because she knows now, that she was wrong before, as much as she was right.

She can’t fight his battles for him.

She can do better than that.

She can fight them _with_ him.

And oh, they’re one hell of a team.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Thanks a million to every single person who has read, liked, commented or reblogged this story. It means so much :)


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